


To Dream of Peace

by naruhoe



Series: The Ties that Bind [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Things Happen to Good People, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Gang Rape, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Pregnancy, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Medieval Medicine, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Non-consensual Exhibitionism, Oral Sex, Painful Sex, Vaguely Medieval Settings, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24047095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naruhoe/pseuds/naruhoe
Summary: With the sparks of rebellion starting to ignite across the land of Anglia, Queen Alannys's cruel Knight Captain, Ser Ilyas, is sent out with a company of faerie soldiers to put down rebel forces in the East. With him, he has the healer, Adair, and former knight of Anglia, Armand. Ilyas has failed so far in his quest to break the proud human, but perhaps he has been using the wrong methods. Meanwhile, Armand and Adair share a desperate dream of escape. If they fail, they will meet a fate worse than death, but freedom is the siren's call that they cannot help but hear.(Tags updated with each new chapter. Warnings remain the same.)
Relationships: Armand/Adair, Armand/Ilyas, Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Original Male Character(s)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: The Ties that Bind [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727125
Comments: 31
Kudos: 26





	1. The Road to Carlisle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for referenced/implied rape/non-con and implied pregnancy.

A dog, if thrown a bone, will wag its tail. If starved, it will howl and whine. If kicked, the dog will cower from its master. But if kicked enough, starved enough, what is an animal to do but bite the hand that feeds it? In the face of contempt, how does one keep their sanity? How is a dog to remember that he has known more than abuse? How is he to rise above it? Will he even remember how to stand?

***

The company that set out from Stonehaven was a group of forty men, disincluding the servants and of course, Ilyas’s pet himself. To cut down on time, all the soldiers had been issued mounts, and the servants traveled behind in a horse-drawn wagon. Unfortunately, the arrival of spring had brought the rain, turning the roads into slick channels of mud several inches deep in places.

The mud brought about its own host of problems, the first and foremost being that the two wagons the company brought with them often got stuck in the mud. Whenever these got stuck, men would be forced to get down into the mud to push it out of the rut. The second of these problems was the deplorable conditions that the wind, mud, and rain came together to form. The bygone conclusion of these conditions were, of course, irritable men who were forever complaining about being damp and filthy. Tensions ran high within the company during that week of travel, and many fights erupted between soldiers. 

Ilyas did not like this at all, but when the threat of flogging did not put the fear of the gods into his unruly subordinates, he began to look for alternate methods of stress release. A lucky thing it was, then, that there were two such easy targets available every night when a farmstead with pretty young daughters could not be found.

The week's travel to Carlisle was an altogether miserable experience, if not for the mud and rain then because of Adair's presence. Armand's own abuse was one thing, but to be forced to witness the mistreatment of a friend made him furious. He was absolutely helpless to aid her, unable to sidetrack the attentions of the men who came to her at night or any other hours of the day, hurting, touching and harassing. After all, he had his own problems.

Though for the most part, the soldiers reserved the brunt of their more violent aggression for Armand, the bruises he saw on his friend's arms and wrists when he required healing made him utterly sick at heart. Ilyas was fond of lending his pet traitor out at nights, sometimes for a beating, sometimes to function as the company's personal whore. During his precious free waking moments, he was often tasked with polishing Ilyas's armor, currying the horses, or other manual labor.

As they got closer to Carlisle, the days and the nights seemed to get even longer as they got further and further into human territory. The soldiers would frequently take livestock or crops- and even the homes from the farms they came across. Those who resisted the theft of their hard-earned resources were killed, beaten, or became victim to arson. Armand suffered from more injuries with every day that passed, his rage at seeing entire families evicted from their homes becoming too much to contain.

About a day's ride from Carlisle, Ilyas presented him with a sword. And not just any sword. _His_ sword.

The look on Armand's face as Ilyas presented him with his sword was something he relished even more than the sounds of unwilling pleasure Armand would make when Ilyas forced him to climax. He had seen the rage building in Armand during their travels, but even after he’d given leave for his men to beat or rape it out of him, it only seemed to have inflamed the fire within him. Ilyas had a feeling that the sword would just ignite Armand further, though he had plans for those fires.

"I was considering having it melted down with the rest of your armor, though I’m glad I didn’t, now," Ilyas remarked, holding the blade up for inspection. By the look on Armand’s face, you’d think it was some holy relic, not a battered sword. He didn’t see what was so special about it, but the reaction had been quite nice. It would need some cleaning and some honing to bring it back to proper fighting standards. 

He could have given it to Armand during the raiding but the idiot had proved himself thoroughly unworthy when he knocked out one of the soldiers guarding him and tried to pummel another, resulting in his being tied to his horse while the rest of the company went out to raid.

"I think the servant bitch has your armor packed onto her horse. You'll want to see her for it," Ilyas told Armand and then tossed him the sword. “You’ll need it,” He added ominously, a hint of a fanged smile twisting his mouth. He was confident Armand wouldn't do anything with it to lash out. He was severely outnumbered, and it appeared that he was learning that when he misbehaved, the girl also suffered for it.

Unable to resist one more verbal jab, Ilyas decided to divulge his plans for Carlisle. "When we reach Carlisle, we will enter through the city gates. Your orders are to kill _anyone_ who resists. Mercy will not be shown. I intend to dispatch the Lord, and yes, I expect you to be in attendance. The same will go for his family. If he has a wife or daughters-” Ilyas smiled jaggedly.

“Well, at least you'll be granted a bit of respite from your whoring, hm?"

The sword landed in the dirt at his feet. Armand, looking incensed, looked down at it as if it were a poisonous snake, or something equally dangerous. His gaze remained flinty, but the battle taking place within him was clear. It was only after Ilyas's footsteps faded off into the camp that Armand bent to pick the sword off the ground with trembling hands.

He willed the shake in his hands to stop as he turned it over, feeling the familiar shape of the handle, bound tightly with strips of untanned leather to provide a grip. He ran a thumb across the top of the pommel, then down the flat of the blade, feeling the groove of the fuller; the smooth metal of the blade. The weight was familiar and comforting in his hand, although it was obvious she needed a good oiling. A sharpening, too, though he hadn't had a whetstone since his personal effects had been taken from him. He did not wish to ask to borrow someone else's any more than he wanted another cock forced down his throat.

Armand retrieved the sheath from where it lay in the dust, then straightened back to his full height. He sheathed the blade, but having no swordbelt, settled for holding it. Grim at heart, he set off in search of Adair. With the sword in his hand, most of the soldiers looked a little warier about approaching him, and he encountered no trouble on the way there.

He found her around the outskirts of the farm where they had made camp for the night, once again forcing another poor farmer's family out of their homes. Armand knew that they had not been put to the sword this time, at least, for he had been the one to bear witness as they were forced out into the wilds with only the few belongings they had on their backs. She was sitting listlessly by a fire, her slim shoulders slumped as she poked at the flames occasionally with a stick.

"Adair,” he said softly, knowing that she probably could not see him with her fire-blinded eyes as he emerged out of the dark.

It took her a moment to answer, green eyes moving sluggishly as she searched for him in the dark. "Armand..." However, upon seeing him, she sat up a little straighter, her stick held loosely in her hands. Purple bruises lined her wrists, disappearing up under her sleeves. She offered him a faint but wary smile, knowing that they were being watched. These men were cruel, always looking for a chance to make the two of their lives miserable. Unfortunately they were succeeding.

"Come sit next to me. The fire is nice and warm."

As bid, Armand slowly, painfully took a seat on the felled tree next to Adair. As she had said, the fire was warm, but not enough to erase the chill that prickled his skin when he took in the sight of the bruises blooming on her wrists, disappearing up her forearms where her sleeves covered her arms. Though he bore many of the same marks, though often in less visible places, with the exception of the finger-shaped bruises shadowing his jaw and the back of his neck, it still made him utterly furious to see the absolute disrespect with which Ilyas's men had treated his friend.

To give Armand what he no doubt deserved in their minds for the friends he had killed and lives he had taken was one thing, but to accost a girl like Adair, someone who had never even held a sword, much less used one against them, was a despicable act undeserving of any semblance of mercy, should that time ever come. She was a lady- a healer, not a whore. And his friend.

"I should kill them for what they've done,” he said lowly, his voice a low growl rendered inaudible to listeners by the crackle of the fire, but one that nevertheless betrayed the intent radiating off of him in waves if not from the tone of his voice then by the hunch of his shoulders and the murderous glint to his eyes. His voice was thick with anger. "I should gut all of them where they stand like the pigs they are."

His hands tightened on his sword, the leather of the scabbard giving a dangerous creak as he stared fixedly into the flames. It dazzled his eyes, the fire reflecting in the blue of their depths. The sword reminded him of his reason for being here, and he felt the weight settle upon his shoulders. How could he be expected to use this against his own people tomorrow? They were exactly the people he had fought for, and now...

Adair glanced back at the fire, prodding at a half burning log with her stick and pushing it deeper into the flames. The log crumbled, reduced to embers. "In time, Armand," she answered quietly. The defeated nature of her voice had Armand clenching his teeth in helpless rage. Rage. It seemed all that he had left to him, these days. "If you were to act now, the consequences would be unthinkable."

Unthinkable, yes, but she had half a mind to join him on such a suicide mission. Experiencing it for herself was quite enough, but anything would be better than having to _hear_ Armand’s nightly abuse. 

Adair took a breath, wincing as she ran a hand through her snarled curls. She was just as dirty as the rest of them, but it didn't matter when her skirt was rucked up. “I have a favor to ask of you, Armand.”

It was incredibly hard for a faerie woman to become pregnant. Due to the longevity of the race fertility rages were low and all women received their flow of blood only twice a year. It was because of such a rarity that abortions were outlawed and laws against harming pregnant women were incredibly strict to protect an unborn child. 

Her full lips pressed together into a tight line. A look of heavy shame crossed over her features and clouded her light green eyes. "I need pennyroyal," she whispered. "Enough for several batches of tea.”

The girl glanced upwards at Armand, slim shoulders bowing inwards as if to make her seem even smaller. "Could you do that for me? Discreetly?"

His grip tightened even further on the sheath of his sword, short-trimmed nails digging crescent moon shapes into the leather. He knew the leaf. It was toxic, but if used in small amounts, useful for a rather specific purpose.

"Yes." Armand rasped. Speaking seemed an impossible task. His heart was sick with helpless anger. _Those bastards_. He remembered the faces of the first few nights vividly, but they had begun to blur together after half a week had passed. He wondered if it was the same for Adair. “Yes, of course.”

He would have done anything if it would have helped her. If she had pointed, he would have had his sword drawn in an instant. Knowing all of those who had abused them, it seemed half of the company would lie dead at their feet before justice was obtained, but Armand would have done it anyways if it would have helped. Piles of corpses and streams of blood mounted up in his mind's eye, and the blood-streaked Adair in his mind laughed; reveled in the brutal justice of it all, even, but the Adair sitting by the campfire beside him still looked as defeated as ever.

What was there to say that they hadn't already thought in the privacy of their own minds? And yet the silence seemed to weigh heavier than ever. “Have you a story?" Armand asked softly. "Something happy, perhaps?”

Adair seemed to stir at that, though she continued to look into the fire. “Yes,” she said, after a moment. “This is a tale known to the people of every Court,” she began, in the voice of one reciting a story told so often that they had committed it to memory. “There was once a time when there was only the Lady of Winter and the Lord of Summer. Proud, they both were, though it seemed they could never come to an agreement on anything. To settle their disputes, they often held contests. Summer was skilled in wielding the sun's rays and Winter could transform the weather into the fiercest snow storms you can imagine..."

_This battle for superiority continued until the land of Albion had nearly been laid to waste. Lady Winter was the one to bring an end to the fighting. In a moment of clarity, she realized the people were dying because of their greed. Something had to be done. And so, she conceded to Summer, and they came to peace. Over time, the Lord and Lady forged such a bond of camaraderie that it eventually turned into love._

_Lady Winter birthed a fair daughter whom they named Spring. Though she still had the chilly disposition of her mother, she would provide the realm with life-giving rain. Not long after that, a son was born to them. They named him Autumn. Free spirited, like his father, he was prone to bouts of fiery temper that scorched the earth, but he quickly became contrite and provided cool breezes as a way of seeking forgiveness..._

" ...with the formation of the four courts, the world was balanced. All was well" Adair said. She hadn't realized it, but her head had ended up back on Armand's shoulder, and she hadn’t the heart to move from so comfortable a pillow. "If even the greatest forces of nature can compromise, then perhaps there is hope for your people and mine."

A hand left her stick to take Armand's, linking their fingers together. "I worry for you. What Ilyas is asking you to do is unspeakable."

"What Ilyas _has done_ is unspeakable." Armand said grimly, but his fingers curled in hers, his thumb stroking across the back of hers in a gentle mimicry of the night they had spent sitting together in the straw. Their skin was streaked with grime, some of it mud, some of it other filth, but Armand did not care.

“Thank you for the story,” he murmured, after a time. Adair made a sleepy noise, seemingly half asleep already. They shared a spot there by the fire for the rest of the night until morning dawned, bright and terrible.


	2. The Siege of Carlisle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilyas's forces take Carlisle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic depictions of violence and implied/referenced rape in this chapter.

Carlisle was a bloodbath. Rebellions had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Armand knew the feeling all too well. 

They attacked at dusk, riding into town and slaughtering any who crossed their path. The keep’s sturdy gates were battered open with a felled tree even as archers shot at the invading forces from the slits in the keep’s walls. 

Three out of the four men guarding the gate died on Armand's sword. Only one laid down his sword, but even as he dropped to his knees, Ilyas took his head from his shoulders, laughing as he dismounted his horse and led the surge into the keep.

Out front, the heads of several faeries had been mounted on pikes. Armand would have applauded their bravery if not for the pointlessness of it all.; the inevitable pain it would bring. There was a force of men in the main hall, apparently guarding the entrances to the rest of the castle where people had barricaded themselves. Every man met his end in the hall where he had stood. Armand killed two who rushed him, practically impaling themselves on his sword. "Traitor." One of them gasped, and died, blue eyes glazed and fever bright.

Armand was soon separated from Ilyas, indistinguishable from the rest of the men for the identical armor and helmets they all wore. If it were not for his eyes, there would have been nothing to mark him any different from the rest of them. It also meant he could do nothing as they rushed down the halls of the keep, looting and killing rampantly. He could save none, not the men, nor the servants, and he found himself spattered with blood as he entered a storeroom to find the scattered bodies of the serving women who had thought to take refuge there. Only one, a dark-haired girl who could not have been older than ten, was still breathing, though her blood was leaving her much too fast to save her. What he would not have given for an inch of Adair's gifts, in that moment, but he tried even so, trying to staunch the flow from the deep wound in her side as her breathing became shallower and shallower. She ceased to breathe in his arms.

His gloves were tacky with blood and stuck to the hilt of his sword as he picked it back up again. Armand found himself in the courtyard outside. The scuffle of straw alerted him to the approach of a wild-eyed stablehand, armed with a knife. Armand hit him over the head with the pommel of his sword and let him fall, bleeding and unconscious but alive, to the hay below. He took the dagger.

Inside the stables, there was a faerie soldier lying close to death, gurgling for breath. He must have been taken by surprise by the terrified boy who had tried to stab Armand. Stepping over him, Armand recognized his face as one of the men who had routinely taken part in the nightly abuse on the road to Carlisle. The straw rustled as he knelt down, pulling off his helmet so that the other might mark him by his red hair. He took a certain amount of dark pleasure in the terror in the man's eyes as they widened in recognition; the thrashing of limbs as he leaned over, the light catching on the edge of his dagger. As slow and intimate as any lover, Armand slit the faerie's throat. Donning his helmet again, he left him to bleed out alone in the straw.

***

The great hall of Castle Carlisle was not nearly as impressive as the one in Stonehaven’s grey stoned keep. The ceilings were not so high, the floors covered with rushes, but there was an iron chandelier that hung above the lord’s table, candles currently unlit. Lord Christian was a large man with greying blond hair and a formidable mustache. He was currently bleeding heavily from a stab wound. The men around him had either been slaughtered, their blood pooling around them, or were being held hostage at sword point by several faerie knights. Shrieks still echoed from down the halls as more unfortunate servants met their demise. Apart from the men currently sweeping the rest of the castle, everyone else had been recalled to the main hall, including Armand and Adair, who stood apart from the soldiers in the back corner, trembling like a leaf.

Armor clinking, Ilyas knelt down before the older man and grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head back. "My queen’s terms were more than fair, but you greedy scum chose to ignore the terms of the treaty that saved your lands. Your rebellion has cost more than your men’s lives, Lord Christian. You will come to understand that by the end of this night."

As if on cue, a bloodstreaked knight hauled in a screeching woman. Her face was battered and bloody, and her dress had been torn down the front. The sneering knight delivered one more backhand to her face, momentarily abating her caterwauling, before he shoved her to the ground and planted a foot on her back to keep her from moving.

"And the daughter?" Ilyas demanded.

The knight, however, only shook his head. "We only found the woman, Captain."

Eyes narrowing, Ilyas turned to Armand, who was standing silently to the side of his Master, armor streaked with just as much human blood as the rest of the men to Ilyas’s delight. Right now, however, he had more pressing concerns in his mind. His dog would have to come later. "Find the girl."

Armand put up no fight being told to leave, exiting the hall with a hand resting tense on the pommel of his sword. The whole scene was enough to make him sick: the futile struggling of the dying man, the terrified sobbing of his wife; let alone the few glimpses of Adair's face where she stood barely visible in the corner. From what Edan had told him, this undoubtedly reminded her of the destruction of her own home. Ilyas's cruelty truly held no bounds.

The new boots, steel toed and far better constructed than his previous pair, scuffed loudly against the stairs as he ascended a small winding stairwell. The dead were everywhere. Their blood soaked the stone, stained carpets and tapestries, and their empty eyes seemed to stare as he passed, accusing. His own personal ghosts. Though he had signed his life away in the name of peace, these were the people he had failed. Peace under Alannys's rule was a hollow, meaningless thing, devoid of dignity or respect- of even basic humanity.

The door to Lord Christian's quarters was open. It looked as if it had been forced ajar, perhaps with a battering ram. The insides were scarcely any better. In various positions on the floor, there were four dead men and a maid. Near the window, there lay the corpse of a faerie soldier. When Armand rolled him over, he found that the man had been stabbed in the throat with an antique brooch. It glittered in the light. Sapphires.

Stepping carefully around the corpse, Armand found several footprints, sized just right for a young girl, leading away from the body, however they stopped too soon to provide any useful information, the blood trail growing faint after just a few steps. They had pointed him in the right direction, however, and Armand made his way towards the West-facing wall, covered with an elaborate tapestry that depicted Lord Christian's family tree. Dutifully embroidered at the bottom was the name and date of birth of Christian's only heir. Priscilla.

Armand pulled the heavy fabric aside, revealing a door, tactfully concealed behind the massive tapestry. Opening the door and closing it behind him, he found himself in almost complete darkness. It was a servant's passageway, he realized, eyes adjusting to the dim light. Down the winding corridor he went as silently as he could, down a flight of stairs where he found a small oil lamp set into the wall, which he took with him. Pausing outside of another door, he was able to hear sounds again. Voices. And quiet crying.

" _ -you must be quiet, my lady, please! The space between the walls is thin. They could hear us at any moment!" _

More crying. It was distinctly high-pitched, the voice belonging to a young girl. His heart as heavy as if he were already in the ground, Armand drew his sword from its sheath and opened the door, stepping, blinking, into the light of a small storeroom.

A young woman turned about sharply as Armand came into sight, pushing a shorter girl behind her. She looked between twelve or thirteen with pale gold hair and a tear stained face. She was doing a very poor job at trying to stifle her sobs, and her hair hung wildly around her face.

The older female, whose clothing identified her as a servant, likely the guardian of this young lady, brandished a small jeweled dagger as she took in Armand's form. At first she thought that he was a protector, a savior to usher them to safety. Her gaze softened at his lack of pointed ears or feral features. But then she noted the blood that stained Armand's sword. Red, not blue.

"Stay back, traitor!” She hissed, taking a stumbling step backwards, still holding the knife in front of her. "I won't let you take her!"

Meanwhile, the young girl clung tightly to her guardian's skirt, frightened blue eyes glassy with tears. The servant woman looked similarly fearful of Armand, but stood straight and tall, clearly prepared to fight for their lives. "I'll kill us both before I let you come any closer. I'll not let her Lady be tortured by those animals. Never!"

Armand took the sight of them in, the disheveled hair of the both women; the inky blood that stained both of their feet and the young woman's hands. He was sure that one of these two, more likely the servant woman brandishing the decorative-looking jeweled dagger at him, had been the one responsible for the faerie soldier stabbed to death with that jeweled brooch.

His sword, once held aloft, slowly sank until its tip nearly touched the ground. There was a wild light in the other human's eyes, the last, fearful hope of the desperate. He knew that she was sincere in her promise. Decorative or not, that dagger would still serve its purpose if wielded with enough manic strength. He could take no more death on his hands today. Armand sheathed his sword with a final-sounding  _ shnick  _ of the blade sliding into its sheath.

"That makes two of us, then." He said heavily, taking a step back to establish that he did not mean to bring them harm. Bereft of his sword, he simply looked weary. The initial terror of seeing someone clad in faerie armor having faded away, he was just a man once more, spattered with blood and gore and with sad eyes and tired lines around his mouth.

"I fear you may need to use that dagger of yours yet." Armand said. "They will only send another when I return empty-handed." It was clear from the weary tone of his voice that he entirely believed they would be found again. Even so, using the dagger on themselves was still a kinder fate then the one that awaited them downstairs.

Unmoved by his words, theolder of the two stayed frozen, watching with wary eyes as Armand slowly lowered his sword and then sheathed it. The knife trembled in her own hand, but she did not lower it. A fighting spirit. "I don't know what they have promised you in exchange for your servitude, but mark my words, nothing can ever wipe away the stink of a traitor!” she said venomously, punctuating them by spitting on the ground between them.

The young girl, however, edged her way around her guardian, peeking out from behind the woman’s skirts. Her tears had begun to slow down somewhat, but they still streaked slowly down her pale cheeks. "You mustn't tell anyone that you found us down here,” she insisted. “You must promise!” 

Armand's gaze wandered past the two women to the flight of stairs that extended down into the dark behind them. With luck, it would take them out of this gods-forsaken keep and speed them down to the mouth of the river that Carlisle sat upon. They might sneak down the river during the night and vanish into the outside world, escaping the terrible fate that had befallen the rest of the castle's occupants.

He did not bother to justify himself to Priscilla's sharp-tongued protector. She could think what she wanted of him. They all could. Meeting those tear-glossed blues, Armand slowly sank down to one knee.

"I swear it on my mother's grave, my lady,” he said solemnly, with all the air of a knight taking his vows. Whether they chose to believe him was up to them, but even if they didn't, at least it would speed them along their course if they were looking over their shoulders. Looking back at the other woman, he rose again, taking a step back towards the door from where he had entered.

"Iron burns them. It will do you better against the fae than that dagger ever will. If you are to escape, you must leave tonight. They will find this place with or without my lies."

Though he did not look back, their faces stayed with him as he opened the door and shut it firmly behind him, beginning his climb up the stairs again. Once he'd made it back up to the room, he took the soldier's corpse by the arms and lugged it into the hallway, propping it against the wall. The bloodstained rug, he disposed of by dumping out the window, knowing it would fall into the river and be carried away on its swift currents. Steeling himself for the inevitable backlash, Armand set a swift pace back to the great hall.

***

He was greeted with a frown of distaste from Ilyas upon his return. The Knight Captain was sitting sprawled in the Lord’s throne, legs spread, a hand on the pommel of his sword. Lord Christian obviously had not consented to the terms of surrender, and was laying in a pool of blood with his throat slit from ear to ear. The body of the lady of the castle hung by the neck from the metal chandelier, her face purple and grotesque. She had been stripped of her clothing, and turned listlessly in the air, swinging ever so slightly from side to side. Adair had been left forgotten in the same corner she had been standing in earlier, only this time, she was unconscious.

"Empty handed, I see," Ilyas said darkly, and beckoned Armand closer. As soon as the man was within striking range, Ilyas’s right hand immediately came up to strike him hard across the face. "If my men find her, there will be hell to pay, cocksucker. Do you understand me?"

His face stung with the force of the blow, a red mark quickly appearing on the high rise of one cheek. "I understand, Captain." Armand said, as evenly as he could manage. He pointedly kept his gaze averted from the pair of feet he could see hanging at the upper reaches of his vision, presumably from the chandelier.

They would have to be gone before the moon rose, tonight. Armand knew that Ilyas would not rest until he found evidence of the girl's departure or the girl herself, but there was nothing more he could do, aside from keeping his vow. He felt only a small measure of relief when the man snorted derisively and swept past him, down the hall where a few of his soldiers were waiting for him, no doubt with reports to make of the keep.

As soon as Ilyas's suffocating presence was gone, Armand hurried across the room to where Adair lay unconscious on the floor, sparing the bloodied corpse on the floor only the briefest of glances as he stepped around it. There was nothing he could have done. So he told himself, heart clenching painfully in his breast at the sheer amount of blood pooled on the floor. 

_...nothing will ever wipe away the stink of a traitor. _

"Adair?" She was cold to the touch, and he worried that she had hit her head as he carefully propped her up, worrying at the paleness of her cheeks despite the slow rise and fall of her chest. Finding her hand, he squeezed it, though her fingers were limp. Armand worried at the inside of his cheek as he got an arm beneath her shoulders, another under the bend of her knees, and lifted her as if carrying a child. Indeed, she was light- far too light for her size, and it was almost easy to carry her down a hall. He turned off into a nearby room, the first he saw that had a bed that he might put her down upon, as he rather doubted she would take comfort in waking in someone's arms.

This room appeared relatively unscathed by the fierce battle that had taken place. There were no corpses, and more importantly, no blood. Armand, after setting her down, took the opportunity to cover her unconscious form with one of the blankets, nudging the door mostly closed with his foot to provide the illusion of privacy. Knowing that she was exhausted and unlikely to wake soon, he took a seat at the edge of the bed, facing the door, and laid his sword across his knees. The wave of exhaustion that swept him a few minutes after the adrenaline faded took him almost by surprise, but he forced himself to stay awake, perking up with every pair of footsteps that came down the hall but never into the room. He did not know how long he sat there on the end of that bed in a near stupor, awake only to the tromp of footsteps up and down the hall.

***

A whip cracked. She was racing through a crowd. Her heart was beating a thousand miles a minute, but the world around her seemed frozen in time, as if moving through viscous honey. There on a scaffold was her eldest brother, bound and gagged as Ilyas shredded his back with a whip studded with raw iron. Blue blood became crimson, and her brother's cinnamon hair lightened several shades, becoming copper. The eyes that beseeched her were blue. Ilyas turned to look at her, but he only laughed and laughed, his face blood spattered glee.

“Armand!”

Adair awoke with a shuddering gasp, half lurching off the bed. Sweat clung to her, soaking her temples and causing her curls to stick to her temples. She was disoriented for a few moments as she tried to figure out where she was. She did not recognize this place. The room spun, but eventually, her blurry vision focused on the redheaded man sitting there at the foot of the bed.

"Armand?" she croaked. Her throat was tight and she surprisingly felt quite close to tears. The day came back to her then, stabbing her mind with unpleasant memories of too much pain and blood being drawn. Her stomach flip-flopped, twisting about as revulsion and stress tightened the unpleasant knot that had her suddenly vomiting over the side of the bed. She hadn't eaten in at least a day, so the only thing that came up was stomach bile.

When she was finished and fell back against the pillow, trembling ashen. 

Armand came out of his stupor quick enough after the sound of retching filled the room, making a quiet sound of dismay as he set the sword off to the side and all but lurched across the bed, reaching out to place a hand on her back before his mind caught up with him. But he didn't draw back even though he knew he should have. Her back was warm, sweaty even- a stark contrast to the clammy chill of her skin when he had picked her up. Warm and alive.

He pulled back after the retching had stopped, taking his previous seat at the end of the bed. The sword remained tangled in a crease between the blankets, only the hilt poking out. It was crusted with dried blood the colour of rust. Either uncaring or having forgotten it entirely, Armand did not make any move to reach for it, his hands tangling together as he leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees.

Her half lidded eyes found Armand once more. He looked bone tired. She wondered how it felt for him to kill his kin, slaughtering those who were only trying to defend themselves. She was sure that it was soul crushing. "How long was I out?"

It seemed that he didn't quite know how to answer the question. How long had they been here? Twenty minutes? An hour? Two? "Lost track." Armand said eventually. It almost felt like he had dozed off, even though he knew he hadn't. He'd been staring at that damn door the whole time. Only the gods knew how long it'd actually been.

“I see," Adair answered softly. The only information he provided her was that it had been long enough to lose track. It was a curious thing to be allowed rest like this. Either Ilyas had something up his sleeve, or he genuinely did not care. She hoped for the latter.

She used a hand to gently wipe across her face, feeling the slickness of the sweat left behind by the night terror. That one had been the latest in a string of ones featuring Armand. She wasn't quite sure what his presence in her dreams meant.

Adair struggled to sit upright, managing to do so after a long moment of struggling. The action made her tired and out of breath though, and she ended up doubled over with her elbows braced on her knees, breathing hard as her vision swam. Fainting spells always left her weak but this one in particular seemed rather bad. She had an inkling that it had something to do with what was growing in her womb.

Armand regarded her seriously, those blue eyes of his taking in her pale face, the curls of auburn hair that had fallen across her brow. She was still unwell. "I feared you had hit your head." He said instead. It seemed an almost random response, out of everything he could have said, but he appeared concerned, still, his attention riveted solely upon her in a way that might have been flattering, had the circumstances been any different.

Taking in her pallor, her struggle to even sit up from the bed, his frown deepened into a scowl as he seemed to realize the root of her troubles, and his gaze flickered briefly from her face to her belly, still as flat as ever. 

Armand considered the likelihood of Ilyas finding out should he leave the castle tonight. To his frustration, the probability was much too high to risk it. Knowing Ilyas's penchant for cruelty (for he still refused to refer to the man as 'captain', certainly not his 'master', within his own mind), he was likely to plant another bastard were he to find out the herb Armand had been seeking.

"Shall I fetch food? Water?"  _ Is there anything I can do to help? _ Said his eyes and the tense set of his shoulders.

Her reaction was immediate. She leaned forward, thin fingers finding his arm as those green eyes turned pleading. She was terrified at the thought of being left alone. Armand might have felt the same did he not feel so numb. “No. Please, just stay with me. Just for a moment, Armand.”

She did not see the way he leaned forward, lines creasing his handsome mouth, pulling at the corners of his eyes. His voice was quiet, hoarse, even, the bed creaking ever so slightly as he reached back to pull the sword back over his knees again. "Alright." Armand agreed. Together, they sat in that small room in silence, neither moving nor speaking for a long moment.

The blankets rustled as he reached for her, calloused fingers grazing the rough back of her hand as they curled around hers. He made no other move to touch her, or to force conversation that neither clearly wanted.

It was some time later when the two of them were finally discovered. It could have been minutes. Maybe hours. When an armed soldier finally tromped down the hallway and pushed open the door, he found the two of them still sitting on the bed, Adair reclining against the pillows, wan and pale, Armand fully armored still with his sword across his knees, whose baleful stare would have been unnerving had it not been for the dark shadows of exhaustion about his eyes.

"Your  _ gifts  _ are required." The faerie said pointedly to Adair, completely ignoring Armand's presence. He seemed one of the few who seemed to put himself well and truly above dealing with traitors, judging by his icy demeanor and the curl to his lips as he spoke. "The Captain says you may eat only after you've treated the wounded."

Armand’s fingers tightened, but it was Adair who slid out of bed, sliding her thin legs over the edge of the bed as she stood, using Armand as support. She trembled, feverish and willow-thin, but her eyes were warm as she let go of his hand. He forced himself to let her go, watching as she was followed out the door by the faerie soldier, away from him and out of his sight. 


	3. Captain, my Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Called to attend to Ilyas in the baths, Armand faces some harsh truths about himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic rape/non-con and the general nastiness that is to be expected from Ilyas.

Carlisle’s “castle” may have been homey compared to Stonehaven’s grandiose ceilings and marble floors, but it had been built over a convenient natural spring. There was a basement sublevel, the walls and floors carved out of the natural stone there, but the main attraction was the several decadent hollows in the floor that had been filled with bubbling springwater. It was here that a soldier led Armand _.  _ After their triumphant defeat of Lord Christian and his rebel forces, it was time for a night of celebration. The human would find a decadent bath in the center of the room, and within it, Ilyas himself, his grey eyes half lidded with contentment from the heat of the water. 

The Knight Captain inclined his head at the other faerie, who bowed tersely back and backed out of the room and proceeded quickly back up the flight of stairs. Ilyas was feared not only by his enemies, it seemed, but by his men as well.

"Strip down and join me, Ser Knight. Think of it as your reward for your loyalty today," Ilyas told Armand, his hand sloshing hot water over his muscled shoulder as he gestured. The long scar from their duel gleamed dully in the light, another reminder of Armand’s place in this ‘arrangement’.

Armand himself looked briefly back towards the door as if hoping to see someone standing there, but obediently crossed the length of the room and brusquely started to strip out of his armor.

His helmet first, which he set on the floor below the table. Gauntlets next. His pauldrons. Vambraces. Gorget. Greaves. Boots. He removed the metal plates first, then began to strip out of the chain and leather pieces below. It was slow work without the help of another to unbuckle hard-to-reach places, but even as he stripped, he imagined a numbness creeping up his body, encasing him, shielding him.

There was red crusted beneath his nails, trapped in the creases in-between his fingers. Armand paused momentarily in unlacing his shirt, his gaze on the dried blood staining his skin before he slowly went back to his task, wondering where Adair was right now. The shirt joined the pile of armor, shortly followed by his pants.

He deliberately did not look at Ilyas as he made his way to the bath sunk into the floor, though it did little to diminish the sensation of Ilyas's eyes on him, moving up and down his body. They lingered on the finger-shaped bruises at his hips and the discolored skin of his ribs, his cock of course, and the red trail of hair that was growing once again at his navel. 

It was a lithe hard body, scarred but still alluring, perhaps moreso because of the damage etched into that pale skin, a canvas for Ilyas to do as he pleased. The Knight Captain would take advantage of that body many times to come before the human began to wilt like a flower as humans were prone to doing. By the time he was done with it, Armand would welcome an end. Any end.

"Did you enjoy having your armor back today?" Ilyas asked in a deceptively light voice. Based on the grunt that Armand gave in response, more of a  _ non-answer  _ than an answer, he had detected that Ilyas didn’t care. Good. About damn time the whelp started learning. Ilyas chuckled, continuing on with another hungry look at the scars he’d inflicted on the human’s back. "Castle Carlisle sits directly over an underwater spring. Hot water all year round. Isn’t it marvelous?”

Plucking up the cake of soap, Ilyas ignored the quiet ‘yes, Captain’ as he began to scrub himself, starting with his arms and chest first before he sank beneath the water to wash away the suds. His emergence had his dark hair slicked back against his skull, wet and heavy with water. The light provided by the candles around the room shone off of it, like the pelt of an otter. The contrast of his grey eyes with his dark hair was rather startling, like two silver coins. 

Tossing the soap to Armand, who fumbled to catch the slippery lye, Ilyas motioned for his dog to wash himself with it. It had been entertaining to watch the human be mounted on his hands and knees in the dirt like an animal, but Ilyas wanted him clean the next time he invited him to his bed. An  _ actual  _ bed, not a bedroll in the grass or anything similarly disgraceful. After their victory, the Knight Captain was rather in the mood for some well-deserved pampering.

Reclining back, Ilyas watched as Armand began to soap himself up, nose wrinkling at the grime that came free in soapy suds down the man’s neck and shoulders. He was becoming well-muscled again, a pleasure to look at even if he was rather thin from the rationing. Ilyas’s head tilted to the side as he observed a bite mark purpling on Armand’s shoulder. Not his, but admirable work regardless. He had half a mind to inflict some of his own tonight. 

"I haven’t forgotten that you also had a hand in my success today, even if you failed to find the girl. Tonight is a celebration. Should I reward you, I wonder?” Armand remained silent. Ilyas continued on, used to his dog’s sullen nature, but he continued to watch Armand carefully for a reaction. “A woman perhaps?" The Captain's gaze grew sly and predatory now as he continued to observe. "I could call her here now, you know. That red haired Autumn whore. Though she might need a bath to wash her filthy gash out, after taking all those men night after night."

As usual Ilyas was trying to garner a reaction from Armand. Now he felt as though he had the proper weapon to do it with. He was no fool. He’d seen the way the bitch looked at Armand when he wasn’t looking, how the two of them exchanged soft whispers when they had a moment to themselves. The handholding had not escaped his notice either.

"The girl's body is hideous," he remarked, a wolflike smile curving his mouth. "Truly some of my best work, so far. If she were not such a good fuck, I would have cut her throat long ago."

Those blue eyes snapped back up to Ilyas's face, soapy bubbles sliding down the side of Armand's lean neck as he went stock still. The hatred in his eyes was unmistakable, his fury tangible.

He was no longer the proud willful knight who had been dragged through the gates of Stonehaven, nor the wild, wrathful creature the weeks of agonizing torture had warped him into. He had bent along the way, molded into pliancy like steel bent by the heat of a fire. However, it was clear that there were limits to how far he would bend before he broke entirely, shattering into something beyond what his tormentors could control, or even find use for. Adair, it seemed, was that limit. After all that torture, the rape, the grinding down of his pride and dignity, it was kindness that had broken his resolve.

_ Hideous. His best work _ . Understanding dawned as he felt his scarred back twinge with how taut he had grown. His anger had him seeing red, a physical wave that swept his composure away. For a minute, it almost seemed that he would jump Ilyas, punching and clawing like a wild thing, but he regained his control in increments- bare centimeters, inch by inch.

Armand hadn't realized he was squeezing the cake of soap until it nearly slipped from his fingers, its once-smooth surface scarred with finger-shaped indents. He did not look as he set it back on the side of the bath, his movements tight, bordering on feral with the anger that was exuding itself from his naked form. Though his body language as good as spoke for him, Armand stubbornly held onto his silence by his fingertips, desperately clawing at the last shreds of it as if it might help him keep it for longer.

"What?" Ilyas mocked, eyes brightening as he watched Armand struggle to stay silent. He had clearly struck a nerve with that taunt, and was already wondering what else he might say to garner such a wonderful reaction. For a few moments, Ilyas had thought he was going to lunge and try to strangle him, but now he’d gone silent again. 

Now, now. None of that. He wanted more of that delicious anger.

Taking a look at the bar of soap that Armand had all but reduced to pulp in his hands, Ilyas chuckled. "I was half expecting you to defend the honor of your woman. Where is that bravery now, Ser Knight? Where was your rage when I let my men rape her, night after night?”

Ilyas cocked his head to the side in much the manner a cat would as it inspected its half dead prey, maimed and twitching. His words were like poison, and he wanted nothing more than to watch Armand succumb to it.

"What would you do if I took her right now in front of you? I bet you wouldn't even lift a finger to help, even if she begged and pleaded for it. You'd sit there in that stony silence of yours indulging the shreds of honor you still have left to you.”

Leaning back, Ilyas dipped under the hot water to wrap a hand around himself. This conversation was getting him aroused, his cock already beginning to swell. 

However, Armand was still, resembling more of a marble statue than a man as he found himself all but assaulted by memories, frozen and unable to resist their awful pull.

_ His knees in the dirt, the taste of semen in his mouth- his arms held behind his back as fingers dug into his wrists and his upper arms. He was bare, and it was cold, gooseflesh raising on his arms and legs as a foot planted itself in the middle of his back and forced him face-first into the dirt- Rough hemp around his wrists rendering his struggles useless as a boot slammed into his ribs on either side, forcing the air from his lungs. Someone kicked his thighs apart but he hardly noticed, for in the small, crooked tent across the dull embers of the campfire someone cried out in a female voice. _

With an explosion of water, Armand suddenly stood up so fast that his swinging arm sent an arc of water across the tiled floor halfway across the room, spattering Ilyas with a fine mist of microdroplets. Steam rose from his pale form, shrouding him, contrasting the natural paleness of his skin with the pink flush where the heat of the water had brought colour to his flesh.

"You wish for me to speak freely?? So be it." 

"If any one of us is a coward,  _ Captain _ , it is you. You speak of honor though you have none. Of valor, though you slaughter the innocent and take advantage of the weak. Of strength, you have none- only ruthlessness and the feckless abandonment of every tenet a knight should hold dear."

"You are an abomination." Armand growled. His body had since cooled, and the steam had ceased to rise from his skin, but his eyes still blazed like twin fires. "It is no wonder that you serve Alannys. There is no other who would abide the stink of your evil!”

"The weak have no place in this world, whelp." Ilyas immediately answered, his voice calm and collected but with an edge to it. Perhaps he'd let this outburst slide. Or perhaps he would punish him for it. After all, he  _ had  _ goaded Armand into exactly what he wanted. "They are meant to be trampled, just as they have been. Just as they always will be.”

Rising from the bath to match the former knight in height, Ilyas strode through the knee-deep water, naked as the day he was born. Water streamed down the hard planes of his body, his cock standing erect at the apex of his legs. And then he moved to stand chest to chest with Armand, staring the livid man down. As fast as a snake striking, Ilyas’s hand found Armand's throat, circling the pale column of flesh before starting to squeeze. 

“It was your  _ tenets  _ that brought you here to me, Ser Knight. Your weakness that blinded you, subjugated you.”

"You talk like your shit doesn't stink, but let's not forget the people you slaughtered today. Your own people. Think of the men you slaughtered where they stood. Think of the wives who will never see their lovers again, the mothers who will never see their sons. You did that to them.  _ You,  _ Ser Knight." Ilyas grinned toothily, emphasizing his point by giving Armand a slight shake. His human was starting to choke as he turned red, skin taking on the red hue of a ripe watermelon. "That’s evil, is it not?”

Armand spluttered for breath, eyes still hot and angry as he reached up to shove Ilyas's hand away from his throat. His fingers curled around the other's wrist when Ilyas refused to let go.

The bastard was fucking right. Every word. The blood under his nails was red, not blue. He'd killed those people, just like the innocents Armand had accused Ilyas of mistreating. He was a traitor, who had sworn a vow to the enemy. A coward, who hadn't stood up for himself while he still had the strength. Was he truly any better than his tormentor?

"Get off of me." Armand snarled, heart twinging painfully. It was clear that Ilyas had angered him, struck another nerve well and truly. Finding himself unable to break the faerie’s grip through sheer force, he twisted instead, planting his hand on Ilyas's sternum, just below the hollow of his throat, and shoving hard. The faerie's nails scraped against his skin, leaving red marks on either side of the pale column of his throat as he escaped the grip, but he could breathe again. He took a step back, feeling the rough stone of the tub scrape against his legs.

"I may be a traitor, but I am not blind. Evil is evil." Armand said through bared teeth. "When judgement comes to pass, another's deeds do not make your own any lesser. I will pay for my sins, just as you will."

"Judgement?" Ilyas mocked, a sneer twisting his handsome face. "I could give a flying fuck about judgement. The strong will always prevail, cocksucker. It’s people like you, like that traitorous whore, like the cockroaches that inhabit this land, that will always be trampled upon by those stronger than them."

Ilyas lunged, the lust and anger mixing to create a potent cocktail that urged him to beat Armand to a bloody pulp and take what he wanted from the human’s vacant form. It was a shame they weren't back in Stonehaven, for he would have gladly strung Armand up and mutilated that pretty pink skin. The faerie's lips curled back in a snarl. The impact of his fist with Armand’s jaw jarred Ilyas's fist as well but he was far from finished. The faerie kicked the man’s legs out from under him, sending him sprawling, momentarily dazed from the crack his head had made as it made contact with the stone.

Looming over him, Ilyas stepped between Armand’s legs. He looked as though he was enjoying himself deeply, if not by the gleeful expression on his face then by the raging erection between his legs. "Who's going to judge me, cunt? The gods of your people? The same ones who stood by as all of Anglia was raped and slaughtered?" Ilyas delivered a swift kick  _ between  _ the human’s legs, taking pleasure in the way Armand curled inward, suddenly breathless with pain but still defiant.

Crying out at the pain, Armand, panting, spat a wad of pink-tinged saliva, for his tooth had cut the inside of his cheek as he fell, at Ilyas’s feet. “I hate you,” He growled, blue eyes flashing back at Ilyas, but there was something in his posture that hadn’t been there, those days of torture at Stonehaven.

The slight bowing inwards of his shoulders announced that Armand was no longer fighting. Submission. It was submission. But why? It was obvious that Armand was physically strong enough now to fight back. He could have thrown himself at Ilyas, rolled across the floor; grabbed the back of the fae’s hair and smashed his handsome face against the corner of the bath, but he’d stopped. He wasn’t fighting the mistreatment as he would have done.

There really was only one thought in his mind. One motivation that stopped him like the length of a chain pulling a collared dog short as it snapped furiously at the empty air, inches away from its target. Adair. Ilyas knew about them, though exactly how much, he wasn’t sure. If he acted out now, there was no chance he’d be allowed out around the castle, much less into the city. Ilyas would chain him like a dog to his bed, or perhaps leave him naked and collared in the courtyard. Adair needed those herbs. She needed them yesterday. The day before. A week ago.

He was furious. But he was trapped. And it was not just his life on the line, this time.  One could practically see the moment Armand stopped fighting. He did not relax, per se, but there was a certain laxness to his limbs, hollow resignation in his blue eyes. 

The abrupt shift in Armand's demeanor caught Ilyas off guard. His eyes betrayed a flash of surprise that he quickly reigned in, but he still found himself puzzled. Puzzled and somewhat disappointed. What was this? Was his dog finally learning his manners? Ilyas landed another kick to the inside of Armand’s thigh, but upon second thought, relocated his foot so that he was all but stepping on the other man’s vulnerable cock, crushing it. 

"Hate me all you want, but you will die serving me, cunt. You may as well accept that now," Ilyas told Armand, enjoying the sound of pain the other man made as he ground the heel of his foot against the base of Armand’s soft cock. He stepped off, however, less because he was worried about damage and more because he was starting to feel bored.

It was time to test the cringing dog before him.

Grabbing Armand by the hair, as he was wont to do, Ilyas hauled the still-damp man up to his knees, forcing his head up and pressing fingers into his mouth, probing at the back of his throat just to see the tears that welled in the human’s handsome blue eyes as he struggled not to choke and ultimately failed. "Pleasure me,” he ordered, a cruel little twist to his mouth. "Pleasure me like the cock-hungry little whore you are. If you do a good enough job, I will forgive this little outburst of yours. If not…” The unspoken threat hung in the air as Ilyas withdrew his fingers, wiping them clean on Armand’s red red hair. 

To Ilyas’s surprise and delight, the former knight submitted without another word, head bending as he bent to the task at hand.

"Yes, Captain."

The coarse whiskers of his beard scratched against the skin of Ilyas’s hip as he wrapped a hand about the man's formidable length, stroking up and down several times with much more surety than the first few times he'd been forced to perform such an onerous task. Except, this time, he had no excuses. He'd brought this upon himself. He'd practically asked for it. He could not allow himself to do poorly this time.

Thumb swiping across the head of Ilyas's prick, spreading the translucent bead of fluid that had welled there across the head, Armand continued to stroke the rest of his length even as he bent to take the head into the heat of his mouth. Though he no longer gagged at the taste, taking it like a seasoned whore, lines briefly appeared at the corners of his mouth and nose as he began to bob up and down, cheeks hollowing on the upstroke.

Ilyas sucked in a sharp breath as Armand took him into his mouth. The warmth and wetness of it was exquisite. Better yet was how Armand had improved at sucking cock. Initially, the little bastard had a habit of gagging, barely able to take Ilyas more than halfway. But now… Jerking Armand’s head towards his groin, Ilyas stifled a groan as the man’s throat convulsed around him, holding him there until he started to squirm. Only then did he finally release him, though his fingers remained in that lovely copper hair as Armand breathed shallowly through his nose.

"Look at you," Ilyas mocked. This bent and broken man had been a Knight of Anglia. Now, he was little more than Ilyas’s bitch. His hand remained fisted in Armand's hair, holding him steady as the man pleasured his aching cock. "You're as skilled at sucking me off as a woman. No small feat. Perhaps you actually enjoy it more than you think you do."

When Ilyas could take no more of the sucking, he let himself relax as wave after wave of triumphant pleasure hit him. Ever the one to establish his dominance, even with his cock down a man’s throat, Ilyas let his seed fill Armand's mouth, refusing to pull out until the man had swallowed every last drop. When Armand’s tormentor finally did pull out, he took hold of his cock and rubbed the saliva saturated shaft along the man’s cheeks and lips in a mocking manner, even tracing the strong line of his nose, smearing saliva under one of those blue eyes as he thoroughly debauched the former knight. To his pleasure, Armand did not protest.

With a sigh, Ilyas stepped back, admiring Armand’s face a moment longer before he turned for the tub. "You are dismissed," he told the human, submerging himself back in the hot water. It even felt better now in the wake of an orgasm from his favorite plaything. He was bored with Armand’s presence for now, and to signify it, closed his eyes and tipped his head back. "See to it that someone brings me dinner and wine, then you may tend to your own needs. That will be your reward for today. Please me tomorrow and you will receive more. Now get out, human."

Armand’s answer was succinct, even if he had to force down his nausea before he could get it out. "Yes, Captain." 

He dressed minimally, replacing only his shirt, pants, and sword belt. He shoved his feet into his boots. The lions' share of his armor, he carried in his arms out the door, adopting a confident fast-paced stride that brought him up the flight of narrow stairs, down a hall, and out into the gardens.

They were devoid of any soldiers, the majority of whom were undoubtedly carousing in the great hall, celebrating their bloody victory. There, amidst the greenery, Armand was quietly sick in the bushes, purging himself of what little food or water he'd managed to keep down until now, along with the essence of the man he so violently despised.

Though the weather was mild, above his head, the stars twinkled coldly. Armand remained seated in the dirt alongside the pile of his armor there for a long while, staring at nothing in particular. 


	4. The Physician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armand meets the resident physician of Castle Carlisle, and makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mention of abortion.

Once the nausea had subsided, he forced himself to rise, pulling his hauberk back over his head and occupying his fingers with buckling his breastplate, bracers, and pauldrons back on. He rebelted his sword belt, cinching it tight around his waist, and bent to replace his greaves. He didn't bother with his helmet, tucking it under his arm as he made his way back inside.

Making his way to the kitchens, where there were several terrified-looking women serving up meat, bread, and cheese, along with something in a pot that was probably stew, Armand tiredly relayed Ilyas's orders, silently pitying whatever poor sod was tasked with bringing the meal up to the son of a whore's room. "Have you seen a faerie girl?" He asked one of them, hoping they might know Adair's whereabouts. "Red haired. About yea tall. Wearing a russet skirt."

A servant girl with a badly swollen black eye turned about sharply as Armand appeared. She was a pretty thing with golden hair and the grey blue eyes characteristic of this region. Her one good eye widened upon not seeing a faerie invading the kitchen but a man. A handsome one at that.

Her mouth opened to reply but his request threw her off. A faerie girl? Her pretty face twisted into an expression of disgust. "I can’t say I have,  _ traitor _ ," she answered in a seething voice and turned her back to Armand.

An older woman piped up from her bent over position as she stirred the bubbling stew pot. "I saw a red haired girl tending to the injured a few rooms down. Didn't recognize her as any of mine, though."

Used to the disgust from his own people by now but far too tired to care beyond his own quest, Armand thanked the older woman tersely and left the kitchens, leaving behind the scent of warm bread and fresh stew. He wasn’t hungry anyways. Going left would lead to one of the cavernous meeting halls. Armand went right instead, poking his nose into several rooms, one a storeroom for dry goods, the other a storeroom filled with corpses, and the third, a room with many long tables, all occupied by groaning and injured men.

Upon first glance, he found no sign of his friend, but after entering the room itself, stepping over the unconscious body of a faerie soldier whose right eye was swathed in bandages, he was relieved to see the shine of red hair in the corner. He had to step over several others as he made his way there, ignoring the unfriendly stares of those who had suffered minor wounds and were being tended to by a grey-haired human male, presumably the keep's physician.

Adair was unconscious, lying in a small gurney with a raggedy blanket draped over her. By the looks of it, she'd been moved here by someone else after she succumbed to exhaustion yet again. Armand worried at the lack of color in her face. She looked even paler than last time, and it was obvious she needed a day's rest.

"You know the girl?" a voice suddenly asked. Armand looked over his shoulder to find the human physician a pace or two away, wiping his hands, stained with inky blue blood, on a raggedy cloth. He had a severe countenance and watery blue eyes, his face lined with age. Armand, deeming him no threat, turned back to Adair, seating himself on a small box he pulled out from beneath the gurney. "What of it?" he asked warily.

The physician lowered his hands and tossed the blood stained rag onto a disorderly side table messily covered with bowls of blood tinged water and various vials and bottles of medicine. The older man eased himself onto a stool, letting out a weary sigh. It had been a long day for him too, clearly, and that was without having to bring one’s enemies back from the brink of death.

"She's the first of their womenfolk that I've seen," the physician remarked as he leaned back against the wall. "It's not as if they're swarming with female soldiers, but it’s a rare sight to see the regular ones out and about."

The man picked at some blood that had crusted under one of his thumbnails. At his side, a faerie man with the bandaged eye groaned and shifted about, but the physician paid him no heed in the way of the elderly who had seen too much. "The girl has a gift. A gift from the gods. First time in my life I've ever seen someone use magic, and she did more in an hour than I could have all day."

Armand adjusted the blanket while the man talked, tucking it in around his friend's shoulders so that it covered her more securely. He intended to stay here all night, even if he had to sleep on the floor. He probably would end up sleeping on the floor, or against the wall. He was bone tired and sick at heart. The only remedy for one of the two was sleep.

Removing his gauntlets, the redhead stowed them beneath the gurney where they were unlikely to be kicked across the floor in the night, drawing the small dagger he'd taken during the siege and inspecting its edge. However, Armand perked up upon hearing the tone of the other's voice change, feeling evaluating eyes on him.

Tiring of his own monologue, the older man turned cloudy eyes toward Armand then, seeming to notice for the first time that his armor was flecked with dried red blood. Human blood.

"How did you get in league with you, lad? Did they promise you money? Land? A title?"

At last nettled by the questioning, Armand lifted his head to meet the physician's eyes, his usual calm temperament replaced by clear irritation. His blue eyes were stormy. Was it too much to ask to be left alone for ten minutes?

Hands going to his armor, he unbuckled the various straps of his breastplate, lifting it over his head and stowing it beneath the bed with a particular sort of ire. His swordbelt was next. Then the chain mail. Armand ignored the confusion and disgust in the man's eyes as the physician caught sight of his branded neck, and pulled his shirt over his head, baring the ugly mess of his back and upper body at large to the open air. Some of the scars had healed cleaner than others, but the lot of it was ropy and dark pink, not matching his pale skin at all.

"They promised to let me die someday," he said stonily.

The physician was silent for a long moment. "Aye, that's a promise they should keep," he eventually replied, trying his best not to look disturbed at the mutilation laid out before him. "Sodding knife eared bastards,” he muttered.

Armand averted his eyes as well as he tugged the shirt back on, leaving the rest of his armor underneath the cot where he'd stowed it. Sleeping in armor was as uncomfortable as anything. Feeling rather embarrassed at his own dramatics, he was silent, propping his elbows on his knees as he watched Adair sleep. He only wished he could have stayed by her side more today. Every day.

The small jolt of realization was a rather mundane one for depth of his feelings. He wished to stay by her side. To protect. To comfort. Maybe more, if she would have him. But with everything she had gone through, would she ever want him? He understood entirely if she never again wanted to suffer the touch of another man. He certainly didn’t.

The physician averted his eyes, the air between them growing tense and awkward. After a moment of consideration, he rose up to his feet and went to the crowded side table to sift through an arrangement of little brown bottles before he plucked one up seemingly at random. He tossed it to the scarred man and directed him to go sit on one of the empty canvas cots rather than on the box he was currently occupying.

"It's a sleeping draught. Mixed with milk of the poppy" the physician said by means of explanation. "You look like you could use a good rest, boy."

Armand barely caught the small brown glass bottle, fumbling and almost dropping it as he was forced out of his thoughts, directed towards a nearby cot. Though he gave it a skeptical look as he rose, apparently reluctant to leave his spot by Adair's side, he did not discard it immediately.

The physician sat back down once more with a sigh, the rickety stool creaking underneath his weight. "I’ll keep an eye on the girl. Looks like she'll be sleeping for a while longer. If she wakes I'll try to get her to eat. There's not much for even vultures could pick off her."

For a while, there was silence as Armand continued to examine the bottle, more playing with it than anything. There was a severe lack of things to do right now, and it was most difficult to keep his thoughts from slipping into dangerous territory.

"Do you know of an herbalist in this city?" Armand asked, sitting upright on the cot. He uncorked the bottle, sniffing gingerly at its contents before he took a small swallow. He was unsuccessful in his attempt to hide his true feelings on the familiar gluey consistency, his mouth twisting in a grimace.

The physician was barely able to contain his scoff at the lad's question. He clearly took a few moments to remember that patience was indeed a good virtue, especially when dealing with one so damaged by the enemy. 

"You’re looking right at him, lad.”

The physician cast a hand towards a large heavy wooden cabinet, its doors slightly ajar from its use that day. "What is it that you need, boy? Something to perhaps help you sleep at night? Poison to end your life before the knife ears do?”

Opening the cabinet revealed shelves of religiously organized medicines and herbs sealed away in small corked jars. Much had been used up during the siege but he still had a decent amount left. "Speak up, boy. My hearing's not as good as it was."

Armand stood abruptly from his cot, crossing the short distance to the medicine cabinet. He looked back at the sleeping form of his friend before directing his gaze up to the rows of dried herbs. He looked almost in awe at seeing so many herbs. It was clear enough in his wonder that he had never had the need to peruse the shelves of an apothecary, nor the money for it.

"Willow bark. For pain." Armand said out loud, but leaned in slightly. He spoke low and fast, not wanting the more alert of the wounded in the room to hear his words. "This is a matter that requires your utmost discretion. If you can do nothing for me, at least help her. My friend; she needs pennyroyal.”

The physician came over his confusion and was more or less taken aback by the request. His eyes went to the girl sleeping on the cot. If she was indeed pregnant it would likely kill her if she brought it to full term, based on his brief assessment of her thin body alone. He could not help but wonder who the father was. His first guess was the man who stood before him, but based off of his eagerness to rid of it, both the expression of pain when he looked upon the girl and the cracked nature of his voice, he wondered otherwise. What kind of a man would want rid of his own child?

"Aye, lad. That's something I can do," the physician replied, voice low and soothing. He had plenty of the herb on hand. After all, those scullery maids and stable boys could never keep their hands off each other. Brewing the tea was something that happened at least once a month.

"She will bleed for three days." Grabbing the jar of willow bark, he firmly shut the doors of the cabinet and locked them with a small key that hung around his neck. "You need not worry about discretion. If I can, I will keep her asleep until her womb has emptied. It will be a tiring process, and she is not as strong as she should be."

Stepping away, he went to his table to grind the bark into a powder, which he then mixed with a cup of water, heated by a small burner. "Drink this, boy."

"Thank you." Armand told him, his gratitude genuine as he settled back on the cot. Though he was still unsure of whether they could trust the man were he to be put under the pressure of a knife, his momentary relief in having found a solution was a balm on his battered soul.

He accepted the tea shortly after, feeling drowsy enough that he was unsure he would be able to finish it all. It was so bitter that it was almost unpalatable, but as soon as it was cool enough, he finished it in a few swallows and set the cup on the ground. 

When sleep claimed him, he dreamed of the faces of the men at the front gate he had killed. He dreamed again of the dying faerie in the stable, except his face was that of Ilyas’s. Armand cut out his tongue instead of slitting his throat, and watched coldly as the faerie choked to death on his own blood. Taking his sword, he moved about the castle as a ghost, murdering every faerie that he came across until a flaxen-haired human girl ran him through with a poker and left him to die.

_ Traitor _ , her lips shaped as his last breath rattled through him, but he could only stare helplessly up at her face, feeling the way his breath bubbled in his chest. _Traitor_.


	5. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days after the taking of Castle Carlisle, Adair wakes. Thankfully, Armand is there to comfort her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for references to abortion and past rape/non-con.

Two doses of tea was more than enough. As promised, it took three days of the treatment, which Adair mercifully slept through.

The sedative would prove to be a great benefit to Adair over the next three days, sparing her the pain of the miscarriage as well as keeping her in a relatively safe environment, away from the soldiers and more importantly, from Ilyas. Of course the Captain was initially irritated by the indisposal of one of his targets, but when it was explained that the girl had suffered some sort of magical burnout from the mass healings, Ilyas was forced to grudgingly concede the issue. 

Those three days, between calling him to his chambers, Ilyas put Armand to work with the disposal of the dead lying about the castle. There were many, and the easiest way to dispose of them was through mass burnings. No bodies or belongings were returned to loved ones or families. After all, rebels deserved no better. After just a day, the normally cool seaside air of Carlisle was choked with the smoke of burning corpses. Between the back-breaking labor, Ilyas left it up to Armand to assist in processing the captured rebels who were to be taken as slaves. It brought a cruel smile to know that Armand was getting right up close and personal with the people he’d betrayed. Nothing pleased Ilyas more than to call Armand to him after a day of gathering personal information from each man for the nastily-smiling faerie guard who accompanied him to note down in a journal.

Armand was hard at work those three days. He smelled unbearably of smoke for the first two, following the mass burnings that took place. Seeing the faces of those men was a constant reminder of his failures, let alone being forced to question them.

They all had the same look in their eyes when they were brought in chains to the cells, the same reaction. Hope, at first, upon seeing another human, then disgust or anger as they realized he wasn't on their side. Many of them spat at him. Some refused to speak to him at all. There were even a few who tried attacking. 

His only consolation was that Adair was safe, watched over by a tentative ally. He visited her every morning and night when Ilyas wasn't keeping him occupied, usually just sitting quietly by the side of her cot with a cup of tea, or a whetstone, or a polishing cloth. Always something to keep his hands occupied so that he didn't have to think, his mind turning over in endless circles. She was seldom conscious when he visited, but it was enough to see her resting.

It was the third evening when Adair regained consciousness again. Her head felt as though it was stuffed with wool, and there was a low ache emanating from her lower abdomen. A rhythmic noise came from her left, the smooth scrape of metal. Turning her head, she found Armand bent over his sword with his whetstone in hand.

A little dizzy from the change in perspective, she simply watched him. Gradually her vision grew less cloudy and his features came into focus. His hair fell forwards across his blow, seeming to glow copper in the candlelight. It was a fine face with a straight nose, the strong line of his jaw covered with a dark russet beard. She marveled at how long his lashes were, almost brushing against his cheekbones as he looked down.

_ What a lovely sight to wake up to. _

"Armand..." she breathed, her dark lashes fluttering as she looked at him. Her mouth felt incredibly parched, and her voice came out as a quiet croak. "You're here."

Armand's eyes snapped from his sword to Adair's face, the rasp of the whetstone pausing as his eyes practically lit up with relief. "Adair!" he exclaimed, so relieved that he sounded practically happy.

He dropped the whetstone with a clatter, setting the sword down only marginally more carefully in favor of reaching out to take her hand, which was hanging a little off of the side of the cot. Relief lightened his features as it had his eyes, erasing the lines from his brow and mouth in a way that made him look years younger.

"Do you-" His voice caught in his throat, and he started to cough a little. The smoke of the corpse fires had been irritating his lungs the last two days, affecting him whenever his breathing picked up- unfortunate whenever Ilyas summoned him, as he had a tendency to gag more, erasing all that hard-earned progress, which vexed Ilyas to no end. Armand waved off her concerns, however, the coughing subsiding relatively quickly. "Are you thirsty?"

It seemed a moot question, after his own struggle to breathe, but he let go of her hand momentarily to get up, fetching a bucket of water from under a nearby table. Nevertheless, he stubbornly insisted on giving her a ladleful first before he would let himself have any. 

"I'm glad you're awake." Armand admitted quietly, resting his arms, crossed over one another on the edge of Adair's cot. He still looked happy, albeit more quietly than before. It was a good look on him, soft, almost.

The way Armand's face lit up when he beheld her made Adair flood with an intense emotion that she had never felt before. Was it some sort of joy? Excitement? Love? She looked down as he took her hand, enveloping it in his warm grasp. Would it feel the same way if he embraced her? Probably.

She made herself sit up a little bit straighter, propping her head up a little more against the pillow, which was, in actuality, just a sack filled with ragged cloths. When Armand returned with the ladle of water, she eagerly drank it down in just a few gulps, water dribbling down her chin and neck in her haste to sate her thirst.

After Armand had put the bucket away, Adair licked her dry lips, not quite sure what to say. ”Armand,” she said, then paused, a warm glow flushing her cheeks at the way his brows crinkled ever so slightly. 

"You're so handsome," Adair blurted and then almost immediately cringed at the words that had flown from her mouth. "I mean… I, well- You..."

Utterly taken by surprise by the seemingly-random comment, Armand drew back in response, opened his mouth, went rather pink around the ears and cheeks, and then closed it again. Not for the first time around Adair, he simply had no idea of what to say. 

"I missed you." Similar to Adair’s hasty confession, it just tumbled out. It didn't matter how he clamped his mouth shut afterwards because the words were already out there. And they just kept coming. "I feared- gods, it made me so angry to see them hurting you." 

The lines at the corners of his mouth appeared again, some deeper emotion darkening his eyes. Ilyas's voice was in his head again. ' _ Any man with a sense of decency would have done anything to make it stop _ .'

"I'm so sorry, Adair." Armand said suddenly, his happiness seeming to dry up all at once. His voice sounded choked, his face pinched. "I couldn't do  _ anything _ . For days. I couldn't- gods, and then you were sick." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, soft despite the deep undercurrent of emotions within him. "I feared I would never be able to tell you that I cared for you, Adair. I'm so sorry."

Curling towards him, Adair eased herself into a sitting position. Her curly hair was limp and tangled, and she wore only her shift (The threadbare garment had been patched and mended in dozens of different places.), which only added to her haggard appearance. She noted that her dress had been removed, washed, and was folded neatly over a nearby chair. Just how many days had she actually been asleep?

"There is nothing that you should be sorry for. Nothing that you should regret," she told him. " _ Nothing _ ." She crawled closer, making sure that her shift neither rode up or down, offering only the tiniest glimpses of white skin. Adair then found herself cupping Armand's face, her hands a feather light touch. "Your staying by my side is more than I could ever ask for."

Eyes fixed firmly on Adair's face, the stressed lines around his eyes began to fade away as he looked into the green pools of her eyes. Slowly, he found himself relaxing into her touch, the spooked-animal cast of his features slowly loosening.

Their foreheads touched, and his eyelids slid closed, a shuddering breath passing his parted lips. One of his hands came up, long fingers wrapping around her wrist and exerting a gentle pressure to keep her hand there on the side of his face. Armand swallowed heavily, his throat bobbing up and down as his eyes opened again, blue meeting green. 

The two of them remained there for a long moment, Adair scarcely able to breathe. The touching of their foreheads was such a small gesture, and yet it spoke volumes beyond the simple act of it. It made her entire body ache like she never had experienced before, not out of lust, but rather a desire to be wanted by someone else when everything else had been taken from her. 

Armand was the first one to move, keeping steady eye contact with her as he backed away just a little, separating their foreheads so that he could turn his cheek into her hand, beard scratching lightly against her palm. His half-parted lips, slightly chapped but full and a pale shade of pink, pressed against her palm.

Adair hadn't realized she had been closing her eyes until Armand moved to press his lips to her hand. She found herself trapped by those clear blue eyes, unable to break their gaze. His head turned and his lips grazed against her hand. Such an ugly thing it was all red and rough, not at all like a real lady's hand. But that didn't seem to bother Armand.

He did not hesitate to tangle their fingers, intertwining them as he pressed a kiss to the center of her work-roughened palm. Another kiss, this one laid to the backs of her knuckles. His warm breath ghosted out across the back of her hand.

Adair couldn't hide the soft noise that escaped her lips. It wasn't a whimper but it wasn't a gasp either. Then his lips brushed against her knuckles and she felt the warm air of his exhalation flow out over the back of her hand. She didn't want it to stop.

Reaching out slowly, carefully, Adair threaded her other hand through his fire kissed hair, smoothing it through the thick waves. She was gentle with her touches, knowing full well what it was like to be manhandled in every way possible. Her fingers combed in slow rhythmic movements and she inhaled deeply, intoxicated by the warm spice of Armand's natural scent, despite the remnants of smoke and Ilyas’s claim that still laid upon him.

Her fingers in his hair should have reminded him of Ilyas, but they didn't. They were gentle, tugging ever so slightly on the ends in a way that made his scalp prickle, not quite arousal but something warm and tingly that started to spread down from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers, curling in his gut, running chills down his spine.

The sensation was all he could focus on, his breath coming shorter as she continued to touch him. Her nails gently scraped the back of his neck as her fingers curled in his hair. Armand inhaled sharply, pressing forward into her touch as if overwhelmed. Perhaps he  _ was  _ overwhelmed. But he was here, and so was Adair. Was there any better place to let go- any other person he so trusted?

To realize that he  _ trusted  _ someone after so long was a feeling like no other, at once relieving and slightly terrifying.

Somehow, Adair managed to find the courage to speak. "Those with fire kissed hair are only found in the Autumn Court, descended from Lord Autumn himself,” Adair said softly, continuing to stroke the human’s red hair. “Autumn’s sons and daughters are said to be the strongest and most courageous of all. I have never met a stronger man than you, Ser Armand," the faerie girl whispered, the slightest hint of a tremble to her voice. She wanted him- more of him. All of him.

But Armand, rising up onto his knees, caught her hand before she ran it through his hair again, knowing that he would be too distracted to keep hold of his thoughts were she were to touch him again. "Please. I am no Ser," he said softly. He did not deserve that title after the things he'd done, the atrocities he’d committed, the debasement he’d endured. Not anymore. Not ever again. "Of the two of us, you are the only one of Lord Autumn's blood." His hand released hers in favor of stroking a few dark cinnamon curls from her cheek.

"It only seems right that yours should be the strength that endures. If it were not for that strength, I would have died from my wounds long ago." And not just from his wounds. Without her kindness, he undoubtedly would have given in to the hopelessness that crept up on him in his darkest moments. "I am lucky to count you among my allies."

Adair gave a half smile as Armand spoke, both of her hands caught in his grasp. Her heartbeat was quickening, but it was not out of fear. Even she could see that they were traveling into a new territory now. After all her abuse, she had thought it wouldn’t be possible to ever look at a man and feel the way she currently did. And yet, Armand's touch did not cause her to flinch or even think of shrinking away.

"If you had not come into my life, I would have ceased to exist a long time ago" Adair told Armand, a sadness clouding her green eyes. One could only take so much before the call of oblivion seemed like a better option than living. “You were able to look past what my people have done to you, and see  _ me." _

She inclined her head again to rest her forehead against his, letting their joined hands fall into her lap. Her lips trembled. She wanted to kiss him. Not his hands, his brow, nor his cheeks. She wanted to taste his lips. Acting on a whim, she tilted her head and brushed her mouth against his in a light, fleeting touch.

Forehead to forehead, when he looked up, it almost felt as if he were looking  _ into  _ her. Those green eyes were luminous, at once reflecting the truth of her words while still bearing the same inhuman beauty unique to the fae. Armand could feel her breath ghost across his cheek just before their lips brushed. Without thinking, he pressed into her, turning his head to capture her lips before she pulled away.

They were kissing, not hungrily, but warm, hesitant, and exploratory. His fingers somehow managed to let go of hers and came up to trace the delicate line of her jaw, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. It was hard to believe this was actually happening, but Adair was right here, awake and alert and  _ kissing him back _ , the clove and nutmeg spice of her scent in his nose, his mouth. How long had it been since he'd had a kiss like this? One that he'd wanted, initiated himself?

When they both drew back to draw a breath apart, hands still seeking, tangled in fall-coloured hair or stroking the side of a face, Armand's lips had curved up in small but genuine smile. His hand rested on the side of her neck, stroking the soft patch of skin below her ear, and he couldn't seem to look away from her face. As if he were committing it to memory; memorizing the bridge of her nose, the arch of her brows, the bow of her upper lip- even the gold-speckled depths of those green eyes.

"You're so beautiful." He murmured. His hands still smelled of sword oil and cured leather, his skin of smoke. 

Adair's cheeks coloured with Armand’s words. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had called her beautiful. As far as she was concerned, Ilyas had taken that from her. The bastard loved to remind her of how hideous she was, how no one could ever want someone as sullied as her.

She closed her eyes as his hand went to her neck, leaning into the warm touch. Her lips tingled from their kiss and her heart fluttered wildly in her chest. These sensations were so new to her, their intensity almost overwhelming. 

"It is my deepest desire to run away from here," she told Armand, climbing off of his lap to rest against his side, pillowing her head up against his shoulder. The acrid scent of smoke clinging to his clothing was especially strong. "I want to disappear. To go someplace where they cannot follow us."

She tipped her head up to look at Armand. "Could we do that? Would it even be possible?"\

Armand, having resettled in his new seat on the cot next to Adair, was looking pensive when she looked back up at him. They pressed together, Adair's head resting against his shoulder, her back warm against his chest.

"It might." Armand murmured, though his disheartenment was clear from the tone of his voice. Though Armand, of all people, had more capacity to stand up to hardship than most-  _ had  _ faced more hardship than many, it seemed that the deeds of the last week weighed heavily on him.

It was not that he did not share that desire. Too many nights had he lain awake yearning for a night sky under which he was beholden to no lord or master. For freedom. To  _ live _ , truly live, and perhaps to forget as well. To leave behind everything he had been, everything he had been forced to become, for surely, even if he ever lived again a free man, he would still be a traitor to the people he had sworn to protect, branded as much by the marks burnt into his neck as the black mark of his dishonour.

Short of killing Ilyas himself, he would desire nothing more. "Where would we go?" Armand found himself asking, despite his trepidations.

Armand seemed doubtful of a possible escape. The tone of his voice was all she needed. It indeed was a futile goal with a high chance of failure. Death probably wouldn't even be the first thing to come. No, Ilyas would make them regret ever even considering the idea. That was a fate worse than death, but so was what they were doing currently.

"I do not know," Adair admitted quietly. "Before Carlisle, I never set foot outside the fortress in Stonehaven. This is the only other place that I know of Anglia."

She knew that to escape into a land she did not know was practically suicide. Alannys’s influence was sure to have spread like poison through the country, and then there was the matter of most humans’ views on her kind. Finding a safe place would be incredibly difficult.

"If you had a choice... Where would you go? What is the safest option?"

"South." Armand said, after a careful moment's consideration. Though he had said no specific place, the implication was clear. As far away from faerie influence as possible.

"The coast, perhaps." He'd never had the opportunity for travel before, given his occupation, but the great ships that sailed back and forth between the Western Sea were none too picky about the crews they hired, so long as they were able-bodied and hard workers. If he could bribe a captain to take the two of them on, they might make it across the sea with relatively little hardship.

As he sank deeper into his thoughts, his fingers began to idly stroke the cinnamon hair that fell down across her shoulders, tucking it behind her shoulders in much the way that he had tucked that piece behind her ear. He had made a messy plait out of the ends before he realized what he was doing, but even after, only undid it so that he could begin again, making a marginally less messy braid. 

"Belmont is said to be beautiful. White sand and limestone cliffs. The roofs are all tiled with red clay, and the cathedral is said to touch the sky."

"We would have to pass through the Riverlands to reach it, avoiding the Kingsroad." He said softly, considering it more idly than with any true seriousness. "Though there are few places to cross the Rush at this time of year, if we wish to go South." 

With the Rush swollen as it was with the spring rains, he did not doubt that all of its crossings were under observation, so the only alternative would be to make for Ostawick, the city which straddled the join of the Rush and the Wolfshead.

Adair closed her eyes as Armand began to stroke her hair. So used to having it yanked and pulled on, it felt incredible to have his fingers working gently through it. 

"Belmont..." Adair repeated. She imagined the place he described, wondering if it would be a place of safe haven for them. Even temporarily. "it sounds lovely. It sounds warm.” Her hate for the cold had only grown during her stay in Stonehaven.

To her, the idea of escaping now was becoming more real, especially since Armand was discussing it with her. With him... It could be possible. "We could prepare," Adair whispered. "Supplies, maps, whatever we need. We could do it, you and I. Cross the Rush, as you said, and make our way down south. We are due to leave in three weeks’ time. If we are to make our move, we must do it before then."

Though he was still somewhat incredulous about their chances of actually escaping, Armand, to his own personal surprise and chagrin, found himself thinking of the supplies they would need for the journey, the route they would take, and, most importantly, how they might escape.

They would need travel-worthy food, but with Adair returning to work shortly, most of it would be easily obtained from the kitchens. As for clothing, a cloak for Adair, not only to protect her from cold nights but to hide her pointed ears. Armand knew he would have to leave behind most of his armor as well if the two of them wished to remain inconspicuous, which would be crucial.

However, as for the method of their escape, that still remained uncertain.

"It will have to be." He said. Armand's job would be to obtain horses for the journey which lay ahead. In the case that they could not steal any from the keep's stables, they would need to buy some. "Do you still have the silver I gave you in your keeping?" He asked softly, blue eyes flicking to the door momentarily as someone tromped by.

Adair stilled at the sound of footsteps, preparing for the worst, but they continued on past the room. She let out a soft sigh. It was dangerous for the both of them to be sitting there like that. With an unbearable reluctance, Adair pulled away from Armand, though she immediately felt the yearning to tuck herself back against him again.

"Aye. I have it," she said softly. "I kept it in the bottom of my saddlebag.”

Pulling her hair over her shoulder, Adair found that it had been woven into a messy plait. Her heart twisted a bit at the sweet gesture, and her hands went to fiddle with it for a moment. “Armand, I must ask. Have you been able to obtain the herb I asked you for?” she asked, entirely unaware of the real reason she had been asleep for so long.

Armand looked surprised, then wary, both in quick succession. Forget the silver. This took precedence. Taking a seat back on the stool for the same reason that Adair had separated herself from where she sat against him, he sheathed his sword again, tucking the whetstone into a pocket.

"I thought you knew," he said softly. It was already a touchy subject, but the fact that she didn't  _ know _ . It was his fault. "It is my fault. Why you've been asleep these three days, Adair- It is because of the herb."

"It was given to you the night we took the keep,” he told her, keeping his voice low, his ears tuned to the sounds of footsteps out in the hall. It was night, meaning less activity around the castle, but there were still the occasional patrols, along with the servants rushing back and forth between the kitchens. "Ilyas was told you were recovering from exhaustion caused by your magic." 

Adair’s face was unreadable for a moment. "I see," she responded softly. She looked down at her stomach, pressing her hands to her almost concave belly. 

Somehow she felt grateful that she was asleep during it. It saved her from having to go through the pain of something that devastating. But how could she not feel wretched at her own gratefulness? How could she feel grateful for such a deed? Her request had taken the life of an innocent who had no fault coming into existence. Its only fault had been having a cowardly wretch for a mother and a monster for a father.

Tears made Adair's eyes glassy before they started to slip down her cheeks. She wiped at them hastily with the back of her hand. "Did I do the right thing?" she asked Armand in a quavering voice. "Was I right in doing what I did?”

"It would have killed you, had it been allowed to grow, Adair." Armand said gently, remembering what the physician had told him that second night. "There was no other choice that could have been made."

He longed to reach out to embrace her. Even with the footsteps in the hallway, the room was empty. There would be no better opportunity. So he did, leaning forward to wrap his arms about her, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and cloves, the salt of her tears and her unwashed hair. Mortal. And vulnerable.

"You must not blame yourself." He said, feeling the shake of her shoulders as she pressed into him. The guilt was with him too for not having the forethought to ask her, and though she had absolved him of blame, the guilt of being able to prevent the awful thing from happening in the first place. He should have taken his own advice, but the guilt remained with him still even as he held her, feeling her weep softly against his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monthly update is posted. Hope you guys enjoy this semi-sweet dose of Adair/Armand feels.


	6. An Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilyas, beginning to suspect Armand's involvement with Adair, tasks Armand with the interrogation of two rebel soldiers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply for this chapter. Enjoy.

It was some time later that Armand found himself roused by the sound of boots against the stone outside of their door. He had just enough time to rouse himself, moving Adair’s sleeping form from where she’d draped herself over his chest, before the door opened, admitting, to his surprise, not a soldier, but the grizzled old physician who had taken care of the two of them for the last couple of days.

The man’s demeanor remained gruff, though he undoubtedly could have guessed what had been happening prior to his entrance by the rumpled state of Armand’s hair and clothing and the half-awake Adair who was just now stirring from her cot.

“Your Captain is looking for you, lad,” said the physician, evidently deciding to move past it without comment. There were many strange things afoot in Anglia nowadays. These two were some of the more benign he’d seen. “He’s not in the best of moods,” he added, a glimmer of what seemed like pity in his eyes. “You’d best hurry.”

***

Armand found the Knight Captain pacing the late Lord Chaplain’s study in the manner of a caged wild animal, his brow twisted into a scowl that could have rivaled the foulest of storms. His head snapped up as Armand entered the room, fixing the human with a look of mixed anger and suspicion.

“Good. You’ve arrived.” Ilyas’s temper subsided somewhat as he approached, but as he drew closer, he could scent a  _ particular  _ aroma wafting off of the human in gentle waves, mixing with Armand’s own natural scent. A very familiar aroma, at that. Cloves and cinnamon. Something would have to be done about that. “I received a report from an outrider regarding the missing girl. Care to guess what happened?”

Turning on his heel, Ilyas didn’t give Armand the time to respond, “I was told she had been sighted an hour ago, allegedly trying to escape with a small group of armed rebels. I sent five men after them. Three of my knights are dead, but we’ve managed to capture two rebels.” Looking out of the window, Ilyas felt his lip curl as he observed the few fishing boats that had braved the smoky cove in a pitiful attempt to go back to some semblance of daily life. “You will be the one to speak to them first before my men proceed with a more intense interrogation. I’ve been told that they might be willing to speak to a friendly face.”

The missing girl- Priscilla Christian, last Lady of Carlisle. She had survived, after all. Survived, and found allies among the people, even.

His good mood evaporating on the spot, Armand clasped the hilt of his sword, a bitter taste at the back of his mouth. As if it hadn't been enough that he had already killed good men, sending more to be sold and enslaved by the very enemy they had thought to overthrow. It sickened him, yet another betrayal of the code he had once sworn to honor, a betrayal of his own people.

"They will not speak to a traitor any more than they will to their enemy." Armand said, keeping a cool facade in the vain hope of making Ilyas see reason. It was the truth. Were he to go in there wearing Alannys's colours, hale and healthy, garbed in faerie armor as if to proclaim his status as a traitorous coward, they were far more likely to spit in his face than exchange words.

Ilyas’s response was that of a deep growl, emanating from somewhere low in his chest, like that of a dog or wolf. It was an uncanny noise that no human could ever replicate. He had half a mind to strip Armand of that damned sword he was so attached to.

"You  _ will  _ do it.” Ilyas’s response was low and even, his voice colder than ice. "You, of all people, are in no position to question what I tell you to do.”

Approaching Armand, though he did not strike him yet, Ilyas reached out to tip the former knight’s chin up with a forceful grip, looking into the clear blue pools of the human’s eyes. He did not  _ need  _ to strike him. The scent coming off Armand was enough to give him another weapon to wield. 

Ice that had nothing to do with the sharpness of Ilyas's teeth or the animal-like growl that had briefly rumbled through the faerie's chest flooded through Armand. His fingers tightened on his sword, breath drawing tight as Ilyas approached. How he longed to draw his sword, to feel the tug and jerk as he drove it through Ilyas's ribcage.

He did not. Like the coward he was, afraid for the consequences, afraid for what Ilyas might do to the person he cared for, he let go of his sword.

"Get me the answers I seek. I trust that you can manage it. When you are done, you will report back to me, and then you may have the honor of bringing me your little friend.” Sharply releasing Armand’s chin, Ilyas took a step back, finality in his posture. “You'll be relieved of your duties tonight."

Armand’s reaction was immediate, taking two quick steps forward that brought him back into Ilyas’s personal space, something like determination- or was it desperation? -shining through the blue of his eyes. He kept his hands to himself, but even inches away, Ilyas could feel the heat of him. “Let me serve you instead. I will make it worth your while, Captain."

Well this certainly was new. Ever had Armand been grudging with Ilyas’s attentions, stubborn and unwilling when he could be, distant or brusque when he was forced to comply. But now, with that spark of desperation in his eyes, it was delicious to watch him hover uncertainly on the edge, desperate for Ilyas’s assent.

Amusement filled the faerie’s eyes at the disguised plea for Ilyas to defile his body rather than the servant bitch. Ilyas acted as though he were contemplating the human's words, his head cocked to the side slightly as he studied Armand’s features, a slight, cruel smirk curving his lips. How beautiful the fae were, even in their cruelty. He could still smell the scent of cinnamon and cloves wafting off of the human, giving him away no matter how hard the tried to conceal the truth. Ilyas would sooner replace that scent with that of his own, the spice overwhelmed by the scent of cold stone and the cold winds that came during the dark months of winter.

"And how exactly will you make it worth my while? Are you telling me all the times before were not? I’m in the mood for a real cunt, not the sloppy gash between your legs.”

“Whatever you wish.” The words, for all that they came immediately, almost hurt to leave him, but he knew just from the mocking tilt of the faerie's face that he would not be satisfied with something so ambiguous. Armand hesitated. His jaw firmed, shoulders drawing back slightly. "My mouth. My body. Take it. Mark me. Whatever you want from me. It is yours."

"You wished to see me with another." Even speaking the words put a bad taste in his mouth. This was not the way things were supposed to be. He forced himself to continue, however. But even if it were loathsome to him, regardless of how humiliating it was, if it kept Adair out of Ilyas's twisted grasp, he would put himself through it again and again. Because he wanted her safe. Because he loved her. 

In light of the realization, it seemed obvious. How had he not seen it sooner? Armand fought to keep it off of his face, forcing himself to put the thoughts away into the back of his mind for later. Now was not the time, nor the place. Even if Ilyas saw fit to approve his request, he would be going straight from a brutal interrogation to subjecting himself to Ilyas's bedchambers.

"Invite one of your men if it pleases you. A reward-" He had to swallow, his throat almost too dry to speak. His shame was a constant presence, not as acute as it used to be, but always there, always burning. Right now, it burnt and bit him like fire itself, a flush rising high on his cheeks. "A reward for their loyalty."

Ilyas did not expect Armand to be so forthcoming with his little deal. The faerie actually considered the offer as nothing would quite please him like seeing the strong human so emasculated by serving another man just for Ilyas's amusement. He had not expected Armand to go so far for the Autumn bitch, as ruined as she was by Ilyas’s touch.

"A generous offer," Ilyas said after a few moments. His hand reached out to grab Armand by the front of his breastplate and pull him closer. "I will choose someone for you... I want you to look like you're making love to the woman of your dreams, enjoying every second of it. If I catch you lying there like a log, like you so often do, then I will be forced to seek entertainment elsewhere.” His breath ghosted across Armand’s face, and he took pleasure in the subtle widening of the human’s pupils, starry black consuming the blue of his irises. “We wouldn't want that, would we?"

Abruptly letting go of him, Ilyas shoved Armand backwards into the door. The man stumbled over his own feet before he recovered his balance.

"Get going. Come back to me with answers, cunt. Got it?" The gleam in Ilyas's eyes showed that he was looking forward to the nighttime activities more than anything else. As well as providing an opportunity to punish Armand for letting the girl slip away, it would help soothe Ilyas’s own irritation at having to report such back to his queen.

***

Truth be told, Armand did not remember overmuch of the too-short journey from Ilyas's quarters to his destination. He was filled with such a mix of emotions and thoughts that he hardly watched where he was going, coming to a slow and eventual stop at the bottom of the final flight of stairs. He felt a fool, if not for having practically begged for his own debasement, then for that it had taken him until now to realize his feelings for Adair. Even Ilyas seemed to have known at least of them before he had. The bastard certainly hadn't wasted any time in using it against him.

In the end, however, this debasement would not matter. There was not much Ilyas could do to him that had not already been done. If he cooperated, it would be over in a few hours, and though he would undoubtedly be hurting, hating himself in every sense of the word, at least it had not been Adair who had been forced to bear such an atrocity right after a miscarriage. At least Ilyas did not yet know that.

Armand recognized as he started on his way again, continuing down to the chilly lower levels where the two rebels were most certainly being held in the cells, that the emotion he was feeling almost simultaneously alongside the shock of his realization was dread. It was a dread so strong that it almost had a physical presence, a heaviness in his limbs; stones stacked on top of each other on his chest. Once he entered that dismal little cell, he was a traitor in every sense of the word. There would be no going back.

The guards in the corridor watched him as he passed. Armand hardly felt their gaze. There was only the comforting weight of his sword on his hip, the feel of its grip against his fingers, and his dread. Though the odds were against it as to be almost impossible, he prayed silently that this would be over quickly.

The cell itself certainly looked like it hadn't been used for quite some time, smelling strongly of musty straw and the damp that had crept in at the corners. It likewise wasn't nearly as well equipped as the ones in Stonehaven. Still, chains were at the ready and the two men were secured to the wall, both of them wearing serious and angry expressions. One was an older man in his fifties with a broken nose, the other being a man a few years younger than Armand who was just as bruised and bloodied as his older counterpart.

The younger scowled at Armand as he entered, automatically distrustful of the redheaded man clad in armor and a sword. Upon seeing Alannys’s crest painted upon the breast of the redhead’s armor, he spat a bloody gob of spit at Armand's feet, a sneer of disdain twisting his face.

"What's a faerie bootlicker doing down here?" The man asked Armand, hostility clear on his voice. The other man remained silent and didn't chime in with the insults. "Think that because you have a sword you're some sort of man?"

Silently, Armand crossed the room, ignoring the table full of various instruments of torture in favor of dragging the stool that sat against the wall into the middle of the room. Under normal circumstances, he would rather have faced Ilyas's rage himself than inflict the same torture he had been forced to endure. However, considering what he had already bet to keep Ilyas’s hands off of Adair, these were not normal circumstances.

Taking a seat on the stool, he ignored the gob of saliva spat at his feet, blue eyes flicking up and down both men, taking in their injuries, the state of their clothing, even the mud on their boots- tinged a telltale red.

It was apparent already that the younger of the two had an inclination towards the mouthy, a trait which didn't bode well for when Ilyas inevitably stepped in. If he had to, Armand could use that against him. The older man, the veteran of the two, was clearly going to prove the bigger challenge. His weathered features and calloused hands reminded Armand almost painfully of the older knights in his former company.

The younger of the two could not have been any older than Armand himself. Four and twenty, perhaps. The anger rose in Armand, grief at seeing his story repeated, come to an untimely end. "Have you names?" Armand asked tiredly, not expecting a productive response.

His response was another gob of saliva, this one hitting the toe of his boot. Impressive. “Sod off. How about you unchain me and I'll show you exactly what we do to traitorous cunts like you?” The younger man had plenty of insults to launch at Armand. Everything about his body language showed an impatience about him, exposing his longing for a fight. It was easy to see how he had earned the bruises that blotched his face.

The older of the two, however, remained silent, ignoring the foul mouth of his companion as he studied Armand with interest. There had been rumors after Anglia’s forces had been called back South, rumors of a small contingent of fae that had rode up the Kingsroad, taking with them a red haired human soldier. A small hint of recognition flickered in the man's dark eyes.

"Were you at the battle of the Riverlands?" The older man asked, cutting off his companion's increasingly creative insults. The battle he referred to had happened a little over a year prior in the marshlands relatively close to the banks of the Rush. It had been a sloppy and wet battle, but one where Anglia had been mostly successful in pushing the faerie forces back. Heavy armor and mud were not things that mixed well, regardless of race, and it just so happened that the faerie forces had not been well-accustomed to marshland terrain.

"I recall a red haired commander about your age riding about and calling orders. Not many red haired folk unless you travel north."

Though he could easily ignore the ragings of the younger man, it was no surprise that Armand felt an inherent dislike for the word 'cunt'. Though he could not- and would not -begrudge the man his anger, he used his better judgement to filter out the insults that continually spouted every few moments. He would not lose his calm here.

The veteran's voice caught him off-guard, and he fixed the man with surprised blue eyes. The Riverlands- could it be? He had not known all of the members of his company by name, but he could recognize a face, and this one looked undoubtedly familiar.

"Yes." Armand said hoarsely. His voice felt like he hadn't spoken in an age with that one simple word, and the steady thump of his heart in his chest felt so tight that it was almost painful, fit to burst.

What was he to do? Beg for forgiveness from one of the men he'd failed so completely? Having seen their faces- knowing who the veteran was, the thought of leaving them alone for Ilyas and his like to torment was even worse. What could he do without endangering the well-being of the woman he loved?? The answer was damning.

"I am sorry." For all the youth of his face, he sounded a thousand years old. He knew that a stronger man than himself would have chosen death long ago. Many days, Armand did not know why he still lingered here on this mortal plane. Today, he knew. He had touched something good. Tasted it. It smelled like cinnamon and cloves, like warm sunlight.

"War drives us to do the things that we would normally find unthinkable," said the older soldier to Armand. His voice was congested sounding from the swelling of his broken nose. It was a kind response, all things considered, but his companion was clearly displeased by it.

The younger man scowled at the other warrior, unrestrained anger clear on his face. "You’re going to sympathize with the traitor? He cut down our men like it was nothing. I saw him.  _ You  _ saw him! Innocent men are dead because of him!”

"Be silent, and hold your tongue!" The older man’s voice echoed the crack of a whip, immediately putting the hotheaded subordinate into his place. 

The  _ almost-understanding  _ did nothing to assuage Armand's guilt. He felt perhaps worse, being confronted with this bizarre kind of kindness, rather than anger. A coward and a traitor was what he was. Of these two, the younger had the fuller measure of him.

Silence followed for a few moments as the young man simmered down, though he still glowered fiercely at Armand. The older man fixed Armand with a stare of his own, but it was contemplative, as though he were trying to look into Armand’s head so that he might read the thoughts currently swirling around in there.

"Tell me why you are here," he told Armand, leaning back against the wall with a weariness that was not just from old age. "Why have they asked you to speak to us?” There was a certain steel to his brown eyes as he said the next: “I will not divulge the location of Lady Christian, if that is what you seek."

Nor would he ask that of these two. No doubt, he wished for the girl's safety as much as they did, even if they did not believe him. Armand did not wish to see her fall within Ilyas's grasp. Especially not after what had been done to her parents.

Knowing the men-at-arms posted outside were likely listening in despite the idle chatter he could hear out in the corridor, Armand leaned forward, wearily resting his elbows on his knees. "They believed you would speak to another human." He said in normal tones, though there clung to his words a mocking sort of self-deprecation.

"It is my advice that you comply." Armand said. In his words, he heard an echo of what Adair had once said to him and could not help but wince inside. Much like he had been, these two were much too proud to take that advice.

"Or what?" The younger man interjected harshly. "Are you going to torture us? Brand our necks to match the one on yours and turn us into your bitch queen's dogs?"

"Arthur, I said that's enough!" The old warrior looked like he was at the end of his rope with his friend. He took a deep breath through his mouth to steel his patience. The young man, Arthur, grumbled under his breath and spat again on the ground at Armand's feet.

"Tell your leader that he’s wasting his time dealing with us. The people he is searching for have traveled far already. They will be out of his reach soon," said the old soldier, with a certain grim acceptance of whatever fate was to come. However, something else had come to his attention. Lady Christian had mentioned something to him as they worked to smuggle her from the outer walls of the city, something about a red haired man letting her leave the castle alive.

"Come closer, boy. My hearing is not as good as it used to be and I am having a hard time understanding your questions," he told Armand, open invitation for them to speak more privately. Whoever this man was, whoever he had been, he seemed to still have some semblance of honor about him despite what had been branded into his neck.

It was a shameful thing to know that these men would be dead or enslaved within the week. That there was nothing short of granting them a merciful death when the time came that he could do for them, 'lest he wished to risk Ilyas's wrath. Had it just been his own safety he risked, he would have done it in a heartbeat, freed them from their chains and fought with them until the end. But that was not the reality they lived in.

His heart sank. Ilyas would not care to listen to logic, and was like to take revenge upon these two men if he could not have the prize he so coveted. He was a coward to wish for their compliance. A lifetime of service hacking for breath in the mines could not be better than this torment, for there was an end to torment, but Armand did not wish to see them die. A man's life was his own. He could only offer his advice.

Looking wary, Armand complied nonetheless, taking two steps forward from the stool, carefully off to the side of the older man, not his younger companion, whom Armand did not entirely trust not to try to rip his throat out from the way he was being glowered at.

"Gerhard..." Arthur warned in a low whisper as Armand inched closer.

The warrior paid Arthur no mind and instead focused the entirety of his attention on Armand. The child had said a red haired man had saved her. It had to be him. There was just one red haired human serving among the knife ears. Perhaps he could be trusted, perhaps not. Gerhard needed to determine that.

"Who is it that you really serve?" He asked Armand, his voice hardly above a whisper. "No lies, boy. Not if you have any honor left."

For a moment, there was a spark in those blue eyes, red hair like sunlight- like fire; something like an echo of what had been. It was gone a moment later. There stood but a man there, shadows beneath his eyes and a grim set to his mouth. “I serve no king.” Armand said, with finality.

There was no serving the greater good. Nor the common people. Certainly not himself. He had proven himself incapable of fulfilling any purpose which actually mattered far too many times to put his faith in himself. If the gods were out there, surely they cared not for him. But never would he put his trust in another man on a throne again.

Gerhard's lips thinned with Armand's answer. Perhaps he had miscalculated, and this young man really had turned traitor after all.

"The king is a weakling,” the soldier said, testing the waters once again. "A faerie council makes all of his decisions for him. He is a king in nothing but name. Do you believe in the queen you serve, boy? Will you assist her in crushing every rebel you see?"

“No.” Armand all but snarled, easily baited by the touchy subject of his loyalty. All thoughts of the interrogation had since left him. In fact, to any outside viewer, it would seem as if he were the one being interrogated. “I  _ don’t _ .”

“I fought in the damn war same as everyone else.” He hissed, quietly but with an unmistakable bitterness. Those haunted blue eyes of his burned with his anger, memories coming back to traipse through the halls of his mind. “It got me a trip to Stonehaven and three months in chains. I tried to kill Alannys. Half the skin flayed from my back and three months in the fucking mines. Take my word as you will. I believe in no king. Nor any queen. And I never will again.”

Gerhard's bushy brows rose up at Armand's vicious outburst. He was quiet and controlled in his rage but the venom in his words was there. And it was enough for Gerhard.

"Aye, we’d heard rumors, though I hadn’t believed them until today. It's a shame you didn't succeed.”

"You will tell them that they are taking her east," he told Armand. "Tell them that there's a refuge in a town called Wyndham. It should take them a week to get there, enough to throw them off her scent. Can you do that? Will you do it?"  _ For your honor? For the man you used to be? _

"Yes." Armand said, short and controlled, like biting off the end of a word. He appeared angry, still, but he was slowly getting it under control again. "You realize this will not end well for you?" He said, slightly less abrasively, guilt flickering in those eyes of his.

His voice was soft. "You know that you will not escape this place alive once the Captain becomes aware of your lie."

Gerhard lifted his chin ever so slightly. A proud gesture for a proud man, an old soldier. "Death has always been in the cards for men like us. You should know that more than most. But if it means even one step towards putting this land back into the hands of its rightful people, death would be but a small price.”

He tipped his head slightly in the direction of his companion who thankfully remained silent as he stared distrustingly at Armand. "Arthur and I, we carry on until the end."

"Every man might have his chance for redemption, lad. Yours may come yet.”

***

What kind of man could he call himself, after that interrogation? He could still hold a sword, but who was he to say that he was still a warrior? Defeat settled heavy upon Armand's heart as he walked away from that damp little room. Those two men were going to die, and there was nothing he could do for them, not to prevent their fate nor to ease their suffering, for he had not the spine to try anything, 'lest he be taken alive and the consequences of his treachery be meted out upon the one he cared for.

There was naught that he could do but try to minimize those thoughts as he ascended the stairs into the light again, stopping at the well to draw a bucket of cold water, using his cupped-together hands to draw several cupfuls to his mouth.

Armand splashed his face with water, resting his forearms on the side of the well as he concentrated on the sensation of the droplet of water that was slowly sliding down the bridge of his nose. Hair hanging about his face, the droplet hovered at the tip of his nose for a moment, growing more gravid as another joined it, then, as he moved his head even ever so slightly, spattered on the stone of the well's wall.

He half wished, as he straightened again, drawing the back of his hand across his forehead, that he could see Adair once more before he headed off to what he was seeing more and more as his own personal hell- albeit, one that he probably deserved, the price of his failures. Lowering the bucket back into the well, he decided against it. It would be best if she were not in his thoughts for this.


	7. A Reward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic rape/non-con, sexually-related injury, and some internalized victim blaming from our protagonist.

The Knight Captain was in the midst of pouring two glasses of wine when the door to his quarters opened, admitting the red headed former knight. In his company was a very large faerie knight who looked very much as though he had been chiseled from a mountainside. Those fine boned faerie facial features looked odd on such a large man. Brown haired with emerald eyes, he stood even taller than Armand at his full height.

"Cunt, this is Cyril. I'm sure you've already been acquainted a few times already before but a formal introduction seemed more fitting," Ilyas said, a smug tone to his voice that seemed to be ever present. He gestured for Armand to come closer and pointed for him to kneel down on the floor in front of where the two of them were sitting.

"Wine?” Ilyas asked, with a knife-bladed smirk.

Armand felt his heart sink a little more. Ilyas was in one of his playful moods, rather like a cat toying with some half-lame prey. It did not bode well for later that night.

He did recognize the man sitting in the chair opposite from Ilyas, more the pity- the size of him, at least, if not his face. In the dark, faces had mattered little; only the heat of a body. Not that there weren’t other things to remember. It was just like Ilyas to pick the biggest bastard in the room simply for the sake of heightening Armand’s discomfort.

Finding himself lacking for want of being on his knees again, Armand took his time crossing the length of the room. “No.” He said tersely. Tempting as it was, he did not want his mind clouded during this. He could not afford to lose any more control than necessary. “The girl fled east.”

The floorboards creaked slightly as he sank down to his knees. Ilyas was on his feet by the table, refilling his goblet from the clay pitcher of wine. Cyril, holding a similar goblet in one hand, slouched in a nearby chair nearly too small for him, legs spread wide.

"Details, cunt,” Ilyas chided, setting the heavy pitcher down with a ‘clunk’. Though they were inadequate in every other way, humans had indeed perfected a good vintage, particularly those living in the South. Tonight’s vintage would guarantee an entertaining night, though that may have also had something to do with the sight of his little human pet on his knees. Armand looked quite enticing like that, defiant and strong as he always was at first. Ilyas really couldn’t wait to see him cry.

"Where in the east are they going? To what town? How many people is she traveling with?"

As Ilyas questioned Armand further, Cyril continued to watch the human, taking a slow sip from his goblet as Armand boldly met his eyes. He made not a sound. A man of few words, it appeared.

"I do not know the size of their company,” Armand answered. His eyes widened slightly as Cyril, resting his goblet against his thigh, began to touch himself with his free hand. It was a rather overt gesture, especially considering that Armand’s face was eye level with the soldier’s groin. “They refused to say.”

His fingers curled into tight fists on top of either thigh, but he was forced to remind himself that he had asked for this. "One of the rebels did let slip the name of a town," Armand said carefully, though the blankness of his tone undoubtedly revealed his rising disgust with the situation. "Wyndham, I believe.”

Rubbing his chin with slim, callous-tipped fingers, Ilyas made a sound of assent. There was a map on the desk of the solar upstairs, and though he felt compelled to go and study it, he settled for fixing the name in his mind for tomorrow. Armand’s clear upset with this situation was all too amusing, and he did not want to miss a second of what was to come. "This is decent information. And to think that you said they wouldn’t tell you anything.”

"You’ll have to forgive Cyril for his silence. He suffered a head injury as a child. Unfortunately, it rendered him dumb, or at least that's what I've been told.”

Cyril did not quite smile, for it did not touch his eyes, but neither did he look away from Armand, raising the goblet to his lips to take a sip that was entirely too large for how fine the vintage was. Behind his subordinate’s back, Ilyas wrinkled his nose slightly before continuing on.

"Now, I know prostituting yourself in the traveling camp is one thing, but I think a romantic evening in is quite another, wouldn't you say, cunt?" Ilyas seemed to have every intent of making this a long and grueling night for Armand. Watching and controlling the scene without stepping in would be a different sort of eroticism, though no less entertaining. "Undress yourself. Then, you may help Cyril out of his clothes, and perhaps show him some  _ hospitality _ . Make him comfortable, understand? And remember: You did ask for this. So I want to see how much you want it. Show us how it is that you round ears make love.”

Even Cyril grinned at that, a rather mean grin at that.

To 'make love' was clearly a pillow phrase for such an onerous task. It pretended at consent, at mutual affection, even, when really, he was a puppet. A doll, meant to be played with or broken as the puppeteer pleased. 

Armand undressed himself as he always did, with the brusque efficiency of a soldier. His armor first, light enough, for he had forgone the bulk of it today. His sword joined the pile on the nearby table, set carefully aside from the rest.

He did not look back at his voyeurs, the lean lines of his body tight with stress, shoulders one line, his jaw another. Did he really think that he could escape this reality if he did not acknowledge them? Soon, the rest of his clothing joined the pile over the back of the chair, roughspun shirt, trousers, and smalls.

His bare feet made little noise against the floorboards as he padded back over to the two chairs situated by the window, and though dropping to his knees was easy now, practiced far too many times to think long on, he hesitated at the vulgar task of having to undress his rapist himself. Undoing the laces of Cyril's trousers forced Armand to confront the situation at hand, his hands brushing the weighty heft of the other's arousal despite his best efforts not to. Feeling Ilyas’s eyes on him, he firmed his grip, cupping Cyril through his trousers as he worked to undo the laces, which had been knotted somewhat haphazardly, making them difficult to untie.

Ilyas made a pleased sound as Armand finally stopped cocking around with Cyril’s trousers and got the man’s dick out. While Ilyas considered himself to be well endowed, neither he nor any other man could match the length and girth of such a mountain of a man. The kicker was that Cyril wasn’t even fully hard yet. Ilyas found himself impatient to start watching Armand try to take that monster inside of him just to see the mix of pain and reluctant pleasure on his face, but for now, it was amusing enough to see how hard his human whore was trying to please.

However, evidently tiring of Armand’s hesitation, Cyril took hold of Armand by the hair with one hand, the other cupping him by the jaw so that one thumb forced his jaw open, similar to a bit gag, and forced his head down. The way that Armand almost immediately gagged drew a quiet laugh from Ilyas, who was reclining on the end of the bed as he watched, his goblet of wine mostly forgotten.

Armand did his best not to gag, but faced with what was practically a python of a cock stuffing his throat, he choked around it anyways, fingers clawing desperately at his own thighs. He coughed and spluttered, just short of retching, until Cyril finally let him go.

However, knowing that Ilyas was watching, his threats having filled him with an urgent sort of dread, he allowed himself only a breath before he got back to it. He felt utterly dirtied, sullied by the touch of this man's fingers at the back of his head, grasping his hair as he licked a long stripe up the length of his cock, trying to appear eager though he felt numb inside.

The second time taking Cyril's cock was not as bad as the first, for he was expecting the almost-painful press of its girth against the back of his throat, but it still drew tears to the corners of his eyes. His shoulders shook as he choked once or twice, but he eventually settled into it, somewhat clumsily stroking whatever he could not fit in his mouth.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, Cyril?” Ilyas asked lightly over the wet sound sucking, occasionally punctuated by quiet choking. The human’s head bobbed up and down in the manner of any other common street whore, Cyril’s fingers tangled in his red hair. This was what the honor of a knight of Anglia was worth. 

Raising his voice slightly, Ilyas addressed the soldier directly. “Don’t waste your seed down his throat. I still want to see him ride you.” To Armand: “That’s enough of that. Stand up and fetch the oil. You know where it is. And take care of our guest too, unless you want to take him dry.”

Cyril’s hand lingered in Armand’s hair for a moment before he shoved him away. Despite the jarring shove he received, Armand was relieved to be granted a reprieve from the rape of his mouth. Coughing, he pushed himself back up onto his knees and rose to his feet. Ilyas's tone was inflammatory, the smug curve of the bastard's mouth just begging for the tender kiss of a fist. Armand's fist, to be more specific. 

"Yes, Captain." He said, voice hoarse. Shameful.

Retrieving the golden vial of oil from the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, Armand crawled up onto the foot of the bed and dribbled a generous amount onto his fingers, feeling the soldier’s eyes on him the whole time. It made him deeply uncomfortable to have not just one, but two pairs of eyes on him as he prepared himself, his face tellingly red.

He would have spent more time on himself had he not sensed the growing impatience on both sides of the room. Grimacing, for he was facing safely away from Ilyas, Armand crawled up to straddle Cyril's thighs. He wrapped his fingers around Cyril's cock, barely resisting making an audible sound of dismay, though his feelings must have been clear on his face. Ilyas expected him to take this thing?

"Remember when I could hardly get a finger inside you?" Ilyas asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He had a splendid view of how the human whore prepared himself, as well as the angry flush that had spread down Armand’s neck across his shoulders. "The things we do for love, hm?”

Cyril, not hesitating to take advantage of the current position, gave Armand a slap on the flank, watching the pale skin take on a pink tinge as blood flooded the area. He reached down to knead the man’s ass with both hands, seemingly appreciative of all that firm muscle. 

Ilyas, still watching, cocked his head to the side to observe the two men on the bed, Cyril in particular. "Give him a kiss," Ilyas ordered, a cruel smile playing at his lips. His cock was beginning to stir, but he didn’t move to touch it yet, still too engrossed in Armand’s suffering. “A good one.”

Armand's head whipped around, fixing Ilyas with an incredulous expression. A kiss? Turning back around before his obvious hesitation could be mistaken for defiance, he inched forward a bit, breath shuddering out of him as he looked into Cyril’s green eyes. They were the color of emeralds, but strangely dull for a faerie’s.

The soldier looked vaguely amused, being rather non-expressive in the first place, but tilted his chin back slightly, his big hands continuing to feel the younger man up, fingers brushing closer and closer to the oil-slickened cleft of Armand’s ass with each sweep. He let out a rather condescending-sounding chuckle as the human leaned in to press their lips together in a brief peck, something altogether too chaste to be called ‘a good kiss’.

The former soldier let out a sound of surprise as he found himself caught by the jaw by big fingers. They squeezed painfully, digging into the joint where his lower jaw connected with the upper half. He found himself looking into Cyril’s dull emerald eyes.  _ Open your mouth _ . Wincing, he obeyed.

Cyril leaned in, breath ticking the coarse copper strands of Armand’s beard as he exhaled. His grip remained borderline painful, despite Armand having acquiesced to his demands. Despite his alleged submission, the human remained tense, blue eyes ever so slightly fearful. Leaning in very close, Cyril licked along the top row of Armand’s teeth before he invaded with his tongue, causing the human to choke, half from surprise, half from the fact that the fae seemed damn near set on forcing his tongue as far down Armand’s throat as he could reach. 

Once Cyril had declared himself done, pulling away from a panting Armand to chuckles from a  _ very  _ entertained Ilyas, he delivered a smack to the man’s flank, slowly groping him up and down before he took hold of Armand’s hand and brought it to his semi-erect cock, curling the man’s unresisting fingers closed around it before he let go.  _ Go on _ , his expression said. 

“Have him turn around while he sucks your cock,” Ilyas ordered. “I’m tired of looking at that ugly mess on his back.”

The ugly mess that Ilyas had created. The irony of it did not fail to impress itself upon Armand as he shuffled around, straddling Cyril’s torso as he bent to take the head of the faerie’s rather impressive cock into his mouth. It was thicker than Ilyas, the head salty with the tang of pre, and it rather hurt Armand’s jaw to take it more than halfway, the head already bumping up against the back of his throat. Cyril groaned as Armand started to suck, wrapping his hand around the remaining inches at the base that he couldn’t easily pleasure with his mouth. 

Sucking cock had been a foreign idea to him a year ago. Now, it was easy enough to just relax and allow someone to use him. By now, he was an expert in how bending was easier than resisting. Resisting got you broken. At least bending allowed one the illusion of consent- of pride.

It hurt when Cyril fucked him. Even with preparation and adequate lubricant, the man was just too big to take without pain. By then, of course, the illusion of pride had faded away, leaving him with only the pain- the shame. Armand could hardly ride him without gasping in pain every time he slid down the fae’s shaft. Despite his best attempt to appear eager, his cock softened with the pain of the small tears he could feel having opened up, and his progress was slow- halting. Armand found himself pathetically grateful when Cyril took control, pressing him face first down into the bed and fucking him in such a way that had him crying out- in pain, not pleasure. Ilyas could certainly tell the difference, but he did not seem to care, enjoying Armand’s suffering, no doubt. Even if it hurt, it was simpler to allow himself to be used than to feign pleasure.

After Cyril finished, Armand laid there, half in a daze as he listened to the sounds of the man cleaning himself off and pulling his clothes back on. There were a few instances that Ilyas spoke, but he could no more make out the words than he could detangle himself from the rising nausea inside of him. They simply did not register. They were not important. 

There were no words to describe just how pathetic he felt in that moment as he laid there, filthy and in pain on that wide, luxurious bed. Somehow, he managed to feel at once sweaty and chilled, skin glistening with a sheen of sweat even as gooseflesh rose on his arms and legs.

After a long moment, he managed to sit up and roll to his side, back facing Ilyas as he levered his legs off of the edge of the bed. He felt... utterly used. Like a kicked dog, unworthy of even the smallest kindness. Coated in shame, just like the mixture of fluids starting to drip down his inner thighs. He could only hope that his shame had proven to be enough. That it wasn't all for naught.

"Will there be anything else, Captain?" Armand was usually soft-spoken, but today he sounded drained. Defeated, almost, even though Ilyas could not see his face for that he was facing away from him, his front cast into shadow.

If only there were a way for Ilyas to capture the dejected image that he had been presented with. He could literally smell the shame and misery that rippled off him in acrid waves, taste it on his tongue. Tonight was everything that he had wished- and more. If it had proved anything, it was that his pet was finally starting to learn his place. Even Armand's tone of voice sounded exhausted. The man was slowly succumbing to Ilyas's control, calling him by his proper title and following the orders Ilyas gave him, no matter how humiliating. Like clay in Ilyas's hands, it would not be long before Armand yielded to him entirely, body and soul.

Setting aside his now-empty wine cup, Ilyas took in the patchwork of scars that covered Armand’s back in its entirety. The only question now was whether he would make the man suffer more. Or whether he would show mercy. "Come here, cocksucker. Let’s see how much you’re bleeding.”

Enough to make it hard to walk, as it turned out. Armand hissed with pain as he lowered himself off of the edge of the bed. His steps more resembled those of a child learning to walk than a grown man. Every movement of his legs exacerbated his pain, it seemed.

The patchwork of scarring across the man's back reflected the candlelight as he moved, rounding Ilyas's bed and making his way to where the faerie sat in his chair, watching with those cold grey eyes. His shirt had been unbuttoned, and the drawstring of his trousers was also undone, though he appeared to have tucked himself away already.

With little preamble, Ilyas tapped the human’s flank, ordering him to turn around so that he might inspect the damage. Touching him, he could actually feel the fluttering of Armand’s exhausted muscles, the taut way that he held himself. It was delightful, though not moreso than the shuttered look in his pet’s blue eyes.

A quick probing of the man’s swollen hole had his fingers coming back streaked with a mixture of oil, seed, and blood- its normal red turned milky pink from having mixed with Cyril’s spend. 

"Not as ready for bigger objects as I thought you would be," Ilyas said in mock disappointment. Despite the preparation, there had definitely been some damage done. As opposed to letting Armand see a healer for the pain he was undoubtedly feeling, Ilyas intended to let him heal on his own. He wanted Armand to experience the shame of bleeding for the next couple of days.

"I'll have to work on stretching you more, it seems," the faerie said callously, wiping his filthy fingers on Armand's back. "You may go. You're forbidden from seeing Lord Autumn’s bitch for any healing.”

Rising, Ilyas poured himself some more wine, already losing interest in the scene as he took in the soiled sheets of his bed, his lip curling at the sight. A servant would have to be called to change them. "I fear that we won’t be seeing one another for a few days. I’ll be heading the hunt for little Lady Christian. Seeing as you’re going to be useless on a horse for the next week, you will stay here and tend to cleaning out the pigpens or whatever other tasks you're asked to do. Now get out.”

His exhaustion betrayed by the flat blue of his eyes, Armand painfully set about redressing himself, gathering the scattered articles of his clothing from around the room. His armor, he carried out tucked under one arm. Though he could hear the rustling of sheets and clothing as Ilyas went about his business, he did not look back.

Once he had left that room, taking the stairs slowly with a hand on the wall, the relief that he had expected to flood him when it was finally over... did not come. There was not much else to feel but the pain between his legs, the burning humiliation and utter degradation of what had been done to him-- by his own request, even. Truly, he had no-one to blame for this but himself.

He did not wish to return to the kitchens, nor the physician's room with its scent of bitter herbs for fear that he might see Adair there. How could he let her see him in such a wretched state? He could not bear to have her know how he had so debased himself so for her sake.  _ The things we do for love, hm? _ He knew. Ilyas knew, perhaps not completely- certainly not the full extent of it, but he was catching on. And that was dangerous.

Armand walked slowly, his feet taking him away from the direction of the kitchens though his mind was lost in thought. He walked down several corridors, descended another flight of stairs, and, finding himself in the great hall, wandered down its stone-paved floors. There was a large open archway set into the west wall, a yawning doorless opening. Upon passing through it, down a narrow corridor, he discovered that the room was none other than a small chapel.

Either side of the large room was lined with statues set into small alcoves, presumably busts of Carlisle's lords long passed, and at the head of the room had been installed a stained glass mural, mostly dark, except for the edges, where the setting sun's light still reached. At the center, however, he could clearly make out the shape of a cross. The chapel was mostly bare save for a few benches at the back of the room. It was on one of these benches that Armand deposited the pile of his armor, eyes taking in the shapes and colors of the mural, the spots of multicolored light that hovered on the back wall of the chapel. How unexpectedly beautiful it was, a rare beauty in a place like this.

An hour later, when the light had long since faded, leaving the chapel dark, Armand continued to kneel there in the center of the room, head bowed, hands on his knees; a pale, still statue in the fading twilight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year and a big thank you to everyone for reading! Here's an even bigger thank you to everyone who leaves kudos and comments; in particular, jazzypanther46 and wallawoo, who've been with us since the start. Thank you guys so much!


	8. Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply for this chapter. Have fun :)

In the morning light, the large room was filled with even more multicoloured lights. They stretched across the stone floors, danced upon the walls, and cast rainbow shadows across the serene features of the man kneeling there in the middle of that stone floor. The play of multicolored light- green, blue, and red -against the autumnal colour of his hair was almost as vibrant as the sight of the sun streaming through the tinted glass.

It seemed that he may have continued to kneel there, but the sound of footsteps coming down the hall seemed to stir the kneeling man, at last. His head turned slightly, presenting a glimpse of blue eyes to the owner of the footsteps. After a moment, he turned back to face straight ahead. Meanwhile, the footsteps, which had paused momentarily, picked back up, continuing until they stopped directly next to the kneeling man.

A gusty sigh. Then an older man's voice, slightly wary but concerned. "Good lord, boy." Said the physician, putting a gnarled hand on the younger man's shoulder. "You weren't here all night, were you?" Receiving no response, he sighed again, bending down to wrap a hand around the other's arm. "Come on, boy. Get up."

It took their combined efforts to help Armand to his feet. He was still leaned on the older man as they made their slow way out of the chapel. It took some doing to go down the stairs, requiring several stops, but thankfully, no-one came upon them during these awkward pauses and they made it down to the lower level without much trouble, only garnering a few glances from passing servants.

Armand had trouble sitting, not just because of his stiff, inflamed knees but the ulterior reason that walking had been so difficult for him, easily identified by the physician who frowned deeply, helping him onto the edge of a cot after he placed several lumpy cushions against the wall so that he could lean back. Still frowning, he went to prepare a cup of tea. Bitter willow, for pain. “Your lady friend was looking for you this morning.” Said the physician, arching a brow at Armand, who looked superficially calm, but with shadows under his blue eyes as if he hadn’t slept last night.

“What?” Armand asked, accepting a strip of willow bark without really seeming to realize what it was. His voice came out hoarse. Misuse or disuse, it did not really matter. The man looked worn down enough as it was, regardless of the cause.

"I sent her out,” answered the physician. “Told her to get some air. Movement is good after being down like that for a couple of days."

The boy's answer was reassuring. "Ah," he said. His gaze, normally sharp, was rather misty today, wandering across the room. It did not seem as if he were all really there.

The physician fiddled around with bottles and jars here and there, and then smoothed out the already made blanket that covered Adair's cot, but eventually, upon running out of things to do, sat down on the low stool with a sigh, watching Armand chew on the willow bark as the water for the tea came to a boil.

"I put in a request to keep the girl around and assist me with things. She seems to have the aptitude for it. Hope you don't mind." Getting up, he tossed a few pieces of willow bark into the simmering water on the little burner before going back to sitting with his arms over his chest.

"Whatever you were praying for, boy, I hope the gods grant it for you."

Though Armand still looked tired, his gaze softened as he laid his eyes on the older man. They had a friend here. The both of them. It was a comforting thought, though they would be leaving soon, or making an attempt at least. 

"Thank you."

He thought, at first, of inviting the physician to join them, but he could not say anything of their escape to this man. If Ilyas questioned the servants, it would be better altogether if he knew nothing of their plans. Safer. The man could have been his grandfather. He would not have the health to travel, let alone flee across the country. It was better this way. It occurred to him that, for all the kindness he had done for them, he still did not know this man's name.

"You likely know it already," he said slowly, "but my name is Armand. I would know yours too."

"Armand,” the physician repeated. “Southern name, isn’t it?” In response, he received a nod. No smiling, though he certainly couldn’t blame the lad.

"Malcom," the old man said, with the same curt nod. “Now drink the tea, lad.” A few moments later he was passing over the earthenware cup of tea to Armand, bitter steam wafting up over the rim of it. Willow was well and good for small aches and pains, but he somewhat doubted the tea would be enough for Armand, considering how the man could barely walk out of the chapel he had spent the entire night on his knees in.

"Try to get some blood back into your legs while I dig up a salve. It’s an old family recipe. Should help.”

"Thank you, Malcolm." Armand said again, seemingly genuine despite the slightly wild look that lingered in his eyes. It hurt to massage blood back into the affected area, but he did as instructed as the physician rummaged around in his cabinet of mysteries, eventually producing a small cloth-covered jar.

He was still in pain from the less obvious of his injuries when he left in search of Adair, carrying a small jar of the salve with him, but it was as the physician had said. The salve, once rubbed into his skin, provided more relief than the willow’s qualities, though he still found himself limping as he walked.

Armand left his armor, aside from the featureless leather gauntlets, pauldrons, and bracers, in the physician's room under a cot. His sword was at its usual place on his hip, and though he walked slowly, taking the stairs at an even slower clip, there was a certain relief he felt. 

Ilyas was gone, along with several other high-ranking soldiers. He would be gone a day and a half, perhaps two if they were lucky. That was more than enough time to plan, gather supplies, and, with the help of the salve and several good meals, hopefully recover as well.

***

Adair had lain awake in her cot for a long time last night, hands pressed to her belly, right above where her empty womb should be. It had felt like a long time that she'd lain there in the darkness, though the time could have been hours or minutes. Her thoughts haunted her, whispering possibilities of a red haired babe, and it had been some time before she had been able to force them elsewhere. Elsewhere, to crystal blue eyes and the tickle as the coarse strands of a beard brushed against her cheek. She recalled the warmth of his lips as they pressed into the palm of her hand and how they had brushed softly against her mouth. Armand had looked at her with such naked adoration that remembering it made her smile despite the sick feeling that still lingered in the pit of her stomach.

He had proved his affection to be true, but it still surprised her that he wanted her. Her, out of all the others who might be worthy of the knight's kind and patient attentions. Armand had chosen her. How he could bring himself to look past all that her people had done to him still eluded her, but the prospect of seeing him again had her feeling… excited, as if her stomach were filled with small fluttering birds. It was a feeling that a girl of her age should be more familiar with.

With morning’s light, the Knight Captain rode out with six other men on the trail of the missing Lady Christian. And with his absence came a strange blanket of peace over Carlisle. The relief that he was gone, whether friend or foe, was universal. There wasn't a worry of angering the man for minor inconveniences or just being unfortunate enough to cross paths with him at the wrong time.

Ilyas’s absence provided a good opportunity to speak with Armand about their escape without fear of being seen together by someone who might report them. It was an easy enough thing to get away, for the old physician all but chased her out of bed, claiming she needed the fresh air. Likewise, the servants did not wish for her help, warding her off with superstitious gestures and scowls should she come too close.

Had she not had Armand, their scorn may have weighed upon her, but as it was, her heart felt lighter than it had in years. She was free from Stonehaven, and Ilyas was gone. This was their chance. Now it was just a matter of finding her knight.

He did not appear at breakfast. For an awful moment, Adair feared that Ilyas had taken him away with him. However, a quick check on the stables showed her to see his horse was there in its stall, munching peacefully on some sweet smelling hay. 

Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Adair let herself into her own horse’s stall. The animal was a mild tempered bay who was a bit bony- just like her. It snuffled at her hands and her skirt as it searched for treats she did not have, and Adair felt her lips curve into a small smile.

“Fear not. We will soon be gone from this place,” she whispered to the horse, reaching up to scratch the animal’s neck. "I'll give you all the apples you could wish for soon enough. You just have to be patient."

Letting herself out of the stall, Adair made her way out of the stables. The hay that covered the floors also clung to her shoes and dirty stockings despite her attempts at brushing it off. Her curly hair was currently held back in a rather lank braid, looking very much like it was in need of a good wash. Unfortunately, finding a private space to do that here was difficult. Carlisle was a small castle, almost more of a fortified manor than anything, and the hot springs down below were reserved almost privately for the lords and ladies- certainly not for servants like herself.

However, the dirt seemed inconsequential as a radiant smile came across her face; the cause, of course, being the red-haired figure that had just entered the courtyard.

Her smile, warm like autumn sunlight, faded slightly as Armand came more fully into view. There were bruiselike shadows under his eyes, and he was limping rather badly; just short of hobbling. A rough night with Ilyas, Adair wagered, her mouth thinning. She knew that feeling all too well, but with luck, it would be close to his last. 

"Armand," she breathed as she hurried up to him. Just a look at his face had her thinking back to yesterday, his lips on hers as they met for the first time. The memory made her heart lurch and stutter in her chest. More embarrassingly, she could actually feel her face heating up, cheeks flushing blue. Curse her fair skin.

"I was looking for you this morning. Have you eaten yet?" Not as though she could offer any food. The women of the kitchen had flung scraps her way that were only a slight step above being fit for the pigs. Her own stomach felt hollow like a tight little knot as it often did. "You look tired. Perhaps you should rest for a bit."

He did not like the way he felt when he met her eyes, today. Though Ilyas was leagues away, it seemed that some part of his malicious nature had lingered on for the express purpose of making him feel nearly too ashamed to look her in the eye. In the light of her warm smile, the way her green eyes crinkled at the corners, he felt almost unworthy. Sullied still, not only by the physical evidence of last night, but by his memories as well.

"Adair." Armand said by way of greeting, a small smile touching his lips as she flushed and ducked her head, cheeks tinting a little blue. To anyone not accustomed to the fae, it would have been an odd sight indeed, more reminding one of frostbite than the warmth of a blush, but Armand could practically feel her warmth from where he stood.

That, at least, he could innocently enjoy. "I've rested enough." Armand said immediately, finding himself worrying at the sharpness of her cheeks. He felt badly that she had not been eating well, these last few days. He had been consumed with endless tasks, but at least the soldiers were given a hearty meal at regular intervals, once each day. "It looks as if you could eat too."

"I will soon, right?" Adair reached out to take Armand's hand, which for once was bare of the leather gloves he often wore as he toiled around the castle. She smiled up at him, still bashful, but with an optimistic look in her gaze that was hard to deny. She wanted out. She was ready for it. "An inn far away from here, bought with your silver. I already have my meal picked out in my head."

She gave Armand's hand a tight squeeze, her knuckles going white with the gesture. "I know that we have only talked of our dreams, but Armand, there is no better time. Ilyas is gone for the next two days. When will we ever have such an opportunity again?"

The risk of staying too long was something that always terrified Adair. Alannys or Ilyas could go too far in their punishments and snuff out either of their lives with little to no issue. Now that she had him, she couldn't lose him. "We have the horses and the silver. Surely we can gather supplies from the keep. What do you say, Armand?" There was a slight tinge of desperation to her voice, not exactly pleading but pretty damn close to it. The longing lit up her eyes. "We can do it, you and I. I'm strong enough. I know I am."

Armand's fingers squeezed Adair's hand, the gesture comfortable and familiar. Comforting. "I know." He said quietly. It could have been in response to any of the things she'd said. Perhaps all of them. But then again, Armand had never been one for grandiose statements when he could help it.

It was emboldening to hear Adair confident after so long hiding from her own shadow. Though there was a part of him that longed to damn it all to hell and make a break for it tonight, he knew that if they were to survive this endeavor, they would need to exercise caution. They had not much choice, however. Truly, it was now or never.

It would not be today. Short of healing, or at least a day to recover, there was no way he would be able to mount a horse tonight. Even tomorrow was a stretch, though he hoped that Malcolm's salve might do its work in other places just as well as it had worked for his knees. He would have asked Adair if she might consider using her gift, but what little pride he had left opposed the notion with everything it had. He did not wish for Adair to see him injured so explicitly, even if it meant his pain would persist for longer than it had to.

Armand brought their entangled hands up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the fine bones of the back of her hand. "Tomorrow night?" he murmured, a lilt of a question to his voice.

Adair felt a thrill of excitement shoot through her as Armand's lips touched her hand. Indeed, for a moment it was difficult to draw breath, so captivating was the sight of his eyes, so melancholy but so beautiful at the same time. She couldn't help but take a step closer so that less than a handspan remained between them.

"Tomorrow night," she whispered. Freedom was so close she could almost taste it. "What will we need for the journey? I can fetch things from the keep. Hide them away.”

Whatever she could do, she would do it to the best of her ability. Whatever he needed her to find, she would find. This escape would mean literal life or death for them. If they were caught, their fates would most certainly be worse than death. Adair would rather have Armand run her through with his sword than go back Ilyas one more time. 

"Blankets. Waterskins. Any herbs you deem useful." Armand said with a rueful smile. The gods knew that he hadn't any skill in telling one leaf from another aside from the most common of remedies. For the sake of not unknowingly poisoning themselves and doing Ilyas's job for him, it was best that Adair took control of that matter.

On the topic of extra clothing, however, Armand suddenly found himself remembering the tailor's shop in the town's main square he'd passed many a time as he went about his duties. He would not need much silver to purchase what he was thinking of. It would make a practical gift, useful for the journey that lay ahead of them.

The space between them was practically nonexistent, easy to circumvent so that he could press his forehead against hers for a moment. "I've somewhere to visit in town. It shouldn't take me long." He murmured, watching those incredible green eyes through his lashes. The brush of their lips lasted only a second, not nearly so long as it'd been the first time, but the intimacy was still there, short and sweet.

"Tomorrow night." Armand affirmed, their noses brushing as he pulled away, fingers lingering on the curve of her neck.

It stayed with him, that kiss, long after they parted, she back inside and he to the stables to retrieve the pouch of silver from the lining of a saddlebag. His sword hung by his side as he made his way from the keep and into town.

Some part of him half expected the people to watch him as the faerie soldiers and servants around the keep did, but with his lack of armor and plain clothing, he blended in to the rest of the crowd rather well, save for his red hair, and nobody paid him any more notice than the occasional cursory glance, usually at the way he was limping. Perhaps they figured him for one of the defenders of the town, injured in the battle for the keep. 

Armand found himself frustrated, regardless, at how _slow_ his gait was- how _careful_ he had to be with his sore and healing body. The short walk to the tailor's took double the time it should have.

Opening the door rang a small bell. Somewhere in the small shop, amid the racks of uncut cloth, spools of thread, and various other materials, a woman's voice spoke cheerily. "Wait right there! Be with you in a minute!" Armand examined the rows of cloth as he waited. Blue, green, black, red, yellow… He had never seen so many colors all in one place. Which one would Adair like?

There was some rustling going about in what sounded like a back room, with crates being placed here and there. Eventually, a woman bustled out, round and soft with apple red cheeks. She wore an outfit fashionable for the southern region, with a sleeveless overdress of raspberry and a long sleeved underdress of light blue. She offered Armand a cheery smile, despite the current conditions taking place outside her shop.

"Greetings to you, sir!" the woman greeted, brushing her hands on a very white apron. In the pockets bulged whatever tools of the trade necessary for dressmaking. A particularly large pair of shears poked out, probably able to serve as a weapon if need be.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, light brown eyes scanning Armand up and down as if trying to decipher what it was he needed. "A new shirt, perhaps? I just received a shipment of the finest linen in the region in the back if you would like to take a look. Shall I take your measurements?"

Slightly bemused by the hustle and bustle of her business manner, Armand found himself hesitating. It had been so long since last he found himself in a shop that he'd almost forgotten what it was like to be treated as a customer. She hadn't recognized him. "No, I..."

His eye caught on an over jacket made from panels of some thick wool, dyed a dark navy blue. It was about the color he'd been looking for, unobtrusive enough that it was sure not to be seen in the dark or picked out too easily in a crowded square. 

"That’s a gentleman's jacket, though he never came to pick it up. Killed in the riots, likely" the woman told Armand, her face puckering into a slight frown for a moment or two.

"It's not for me." He said, sounding slightly absentminded, though his gaze sharpened as he looked back at the woman.

"I'm looking for a cloak for a young woman. Something warm that will stand up to weather."

But then her face brightened back up to its normal cheery expression. "It sounds like you’ll be wanting a garment made with some heavy wool.”."

She disappeared for a few moments, going to a shelf laden with a few dark colored bolts of fabric, and then laid them out on a table before gesturing to Armand to come closer. "I've got some of that dark blue left if you like that. There's also green and grey too. I suppose it's up to the lady’s personal preference," she told Armand. "A cloak can easily be made from any of these though. The only information I need is the height of your lady and if she's got broad shoulders or not."

Looking away from the blue coat hanging there on the wall, he came up to the table as bid. Armand ran his fingers across the closest bolt of wool, grey in color, rubbing the corner between his index and thumb. It was warm, thick, and scratched slightly against the calloused skin of his hands.

"The green will suit. She's slender. About a head shorter than you." He said, eyes flicking from the light brown to the deep green cut that had initially caught his eye. He straightened, catching the woman's eye as he reached into an inner pocket, withdrawing several nuggets of raw silver from the pouch, one of which he placed on a soft fold of cloth between the two of them.

"How soon can you have it done?”

The woman nodded, her eyes growing wide and hungry at the sight of the silver on the table. It was clear that money didn't pass through her hands recently due to all the civil unrest. Very quickly she bobbed her head up and down.

"Well. Can’t say we’ve had much foot traffic since the whole business up at the keep. How soon do you need this done?" she asked, a shrewd look in her eye. 

“As soon as possible,” Armand answered, and set another nugget down on the table.

Picking up the nuggets of silver and weighing them in her hand, she pocketed them both before bundling up the fabric that Armand had chosen, setting it aside to be worked on later.

"Come back in a few hours." She began putting the bolts of fabric away, but looked over her shoulder to look at Armand. "you've given me more than enough. Tell you what, take that jacket, if you want it. The fellow who ordered it was about your size and men your size are a rare commodity these days. Either taken up North or killed in the fighting. Seems a waste to just let it sit on that peg, if you take my meaning.”

Left with a few hours to pass as he would please, Armand found himself vaguely nervous with all the freedom that stretched before him. After the long and hungry months of torment he had endured at Stonehaven, he had precious little time to himself, particularly after the incident that had nearly cost both his and Alannys's lives. All the more pity that he had not succeeded, for the months after had been little better. Ilyas was, in many ways, a crueler master than Alannys had ever been. 

Shaking himself from the memories of the past, Armand forced himself to think instead of their immediate needs for the journey ahead. Grain and feed for the horses. Food and provisions for the road, for the two of them. An inn could easily provide such things, and often did, to weary travelers. 

It was clear that the people of this town had not seen much business since before the siege. After visiting the tailor, he made his way to a local inn. The innkeep he spoke with had the same hungry gleam in his eye as soon as Armand set down a nugget of raw silver, less than he had given the tailor, but to the same reaction, nonetheless. With the war on and the faerie incursion, it was clear that these people hadn't seen commerce in some time.

The two of them made idle conversation as Armand waited for the girl working behind the bar to retrieve hardtack, dried meat, and cheese. He learned, among other things, that the 'pointy eared bastards' had set up an outpost off of the west road. With the willingness to share such information, the innkeep obviously assumed him to be some sort of wealthy traveler. Armand wasn't inclined to dissuade him of the notion, and was very careful that the collar of his shirt did not slip too far downward.

He lingered for about an hour longer at the inn, though he only spoke with the innkeep for a little while longer, ordering a mug of honey mead when the man's questions turned to the subject of his red haired visitor's past. Receiving the cup, Armand took a seat by the hearth despite the warmness of the day. Its glowing embers were almost mesmerizing, and he found himself staring into it as he slowly drank his mead, his aches and pains fading slightly with the heat from the hearth.

Had he truly lived like this once? It seemed a lifetime ago, long before the fae had stretched their talons towards Anglia, that he had been a free man. Would he ever be able to think of himself as such ever again? 

**Author's Note:**

> This is an extremely explicit work. Warnings for violence, torture, sexual violence, and rape. Major whump.
> 
> My creative spark lives and dies by comments, so if you liked it, let me know in a review! Kudos and comments, please?


End file.
